


Noticing

by TheDistantDusk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-07-08 19:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15936890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDistantDusk/pseuds/TheDistantDusk
Summary: Ginny suddenly realizes two things, in very quick succession: One, that Harry has never really looked at her that closely before, and two, that he is absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, doing that. Right now.This is the story of how Harry comes to notice her... but more importantly, it's the story of how Ginny comes to notice that he noticed.





	1. Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! :) 
> 
> I know this overall concept has been done before, but HBP fluff is probably my favorite type of fic in the world and this has been a work in progress for close to two years. This first chapter is T, but each chapter will get progressively more mature.
> 
> Please read and review!

Harry had thought her hair was red, once.

Everyone else in her family has hair that's red. Muggle firetrucks are red. Apples are red. Bricks are red. There really isn't much variation to any of those, not that he's noticed.

But the four of them are walking back from playing Quidditch one day and he sees the colors from her hair catching in the dying sunset. She's looking at him and rolling her eyes about Ron and Hermione, but suddenly all he can focus on is how the little strands dance around her face. He sees that it's actually more of a _redblondebrownbronze_. It's not _all_ red, not individually...it's just tiny pieces that come together to give off the general red appearance. And her eyebrows aren't even red – they're closer to a blonde/brown. He doesn't reckon he's ever met someone who had different eyebrow and hair colors.

Of course, it escapes him completely that he's never looked at anyone else's eyebrows that closely, either.

But now that he's noticed her hair, he spends the next several days thoughtfully considering how the different pieces play together. He doesn't even do it on purpose – his mind just happens to drift to it whenever she's nearby, especially if her hair is looking especially tousled or wavy or even if it's damp from the shower. It's something that always manages to catch his eye, something flashy and fascinating, something that's undeniably interesting in way he can't quite put his finger on.

He swears he sees a black hair on her head once, too, but it passes by really quickly before she bends down and swoops up her whole thick mane in a ponytail. He shakes his head and tells himself he's probably just looking too closely. This is a fact soon confirmed when she deftly performs a mid-air intercept of their makeshift Quaffle.

The next night, Harry glances over at Ron's sleeping form, at _his_ red hair, before he falls asleep himself. And the fact that Ron's hair doesn't interest him— not in the slightest— is lost on him, too.

* * *

Ginny knows that boys – and men – tended to look at her. This is not groundbreaking.

Of course, if you ask, she'll deny this within an inch of her life. There's a difference between being aware of your appearance and being a complete cow about it. And as Ginny matures into her teen years, she's determined to stay on the left side of that line, _thankyouverymuch_.

Lee Jordan had been the first boy she'd caught staring at her. It had happened in the summer before her third year at Hogwarts, and he'd dropped by to visit the twins. She'd been innocently swimming in the pond near the Burrow when it happened. She hadn't been wearing a proper swimming costume, only an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Wearing a proper swimming costume was one of those things she saw little point in, much like refraining from swearing. Flying with shorts or trousers on was simply far more comfortable, and she'd know, because she'd tried it both ways.

You see, flying— or even a _chance_ at flying— had influenced all of her wardrobe choices that summer. Due to the fact that her brothers are overprotective _berks_ who still wouldn't let her fly with them, she'd needed to be ready to sneak in a good fly _when_ and _if_ one of the aforementioned berks happened to accidentally leave a broom lying about. Unfortunately for Ginny, this level of carelessness with personal belongings was a very rare occurrence in the Weasley household; being poor tends to give you an appreciation for things like that. Thus, Ginny'd simply had no option but to be constantly ready to ride a broomstick (and to do so in comfort), _just in case_ the rare chance to fly presented itself.

Thus, at nearly 14, Ginny— who had only started to _need_ a bra a few months ago, and who had certainly never worn one while swimming— had never been in a situation where she'd had to consider the fact that her shirt was white ( _which it was_ ) or that her bra was black ( _which it was_ ), and that she was currently soaked from head to toe ( _which_ she _was_ ). She soon realized, though, that these were things that boys noticed, regardless of if she paid attention to these things herself.

And so this was how Lee Jordan had stumbled upon Ginny's peacefully floating form on that warm summer's day— and by the time he was caught doing so, the look on his face suggested that (to his utmost humiliation) he'd simply forgotten that she was Fred and George's baby sister.

Ginny had felt rather than heard that someone was there. A strange prickling sensation had spread in a cobweb-like pattern beneath her skin, starting at the nape of her neck and sending a shiver down her spine. And almost in a whisper, from somewhere deep in the instinctual recesses of her mind, Ginny heard the three words that chilled her to the bone: _You're. Being. Watched._

At this, she'd gasped a little and opened her eyes, immediately placing her feet down to stand in the soft mushy clay at the bottom of the pond. As she'd pushed her damp hair out of her face, she'd found Lee Jordan standing at the edge of the pond, his jaw slack and mouth agape as he stared at her.

"Uh…L-Lee?" she'd ventured, confused. She hadn't even been aware he was planning to visit.

Her inquiry had broken him from his vacant stare, and his skin had immediately darkened beneath her gaze.

"Bollocks," he'd muttered hastily, shuffling from one foot to the other and determinedly looking away, "I mean, _sorry_ , Ginny…so sorry…was looking for um…" He'd trailed off, clearing his throat and vaguely gesturing to the house.

She'd blinked twice.

"Lee, you'll probably find that Fred and George are inside."

He'd nervously chuckled a little too loudly in response and run his hand hurriedly over his hair.

" _C-course_ , Ginny! Don't know where I thought they'd be! _Right-o_! Thanks!" With that, he'd managed to look everywhere but her – the trees, the clouds, the grass, the pond – before turning on the spot and bounding for the Burrow.

Ginny had stared at his retreating form, filled with a mixture of confusion and…what was this… _empowerment_? And for a brief, shining moment, she'd felt good about herself, felt good about the fact that boys— and maybe even one _particular_ boy, one day — could see her as more than just a little girl. She'd smiled happily as she strode out of the pond, water sloshing merrily around her thighs.

But as she'd stood at the water's edge and glanced down at her calves to check for leeches, she noticed in horror _exactly_ what Lee had been staring at.

He'd been staring straight through her soaked shirt.

Right through to certain anatomical details of her chest – ones which had been undeniable, one which were _clearly_ visible through the soft fabric of her bra. Her fleeting sense of empowerment had instead been replaced with mortified disgust. She'd never felt more exposed or violated or _naive_. She'd reckoned she hated that last feeling more than any of the others — it was a feeling that made her feel like she was three years old, like she was a stumbling toddler who should've known better than to believe that Lee was looking at her face or thinking about the merits of her personality.

She'd known that Lee was a decent bloke, of course — she just hadn't been ready to show that to _anyone_ yet. She wasn't even 14, and while her poncy ancient pureblood ancestors may have been content to marry at that age, she certainly wasn't. No, she wasn't ready for that type of attention… not now, anyway. And certainly not from a friend of her brothers, which just amplified the awkwardness, since she'd most certainly have to see him again. Still, she reckoned that Lee would take the details of this little incident to the grave; if that experience had to happen with anyone, Ginny was glad it'd happened with someone who wouldn't bring it up again.

And as much as Ginny'd hated to admit that her brothers were right about _anything_ once they got into that stupid pack mentality, she'd had to concede that, _yes_ , they'd hinted that something like this might happen, even if those hints hadn't come in the form of exact words on the subject. Every time she'd returned from a break at Hogwarts, she'd noticed them taking an increasingly protective stance towards her. It had happened slowly at first — shared glances between Bill and Charlie when she wore a shorter summer dress out of the house, the cocked eyebrows of the twins if she sent an owl to a male friend.

This had reached the peak of obnoxiousness sometime between the Lee incident and the Quidditch World Cup. It was hot, it was _summer_ , and Ginny had decided to wear a vest on a trip down to Ottery St. Catchpole. She hadn't gotten that far in this endeavor, though, because Percy had taken it upon himself to corner her and insist that her wardrobe choices were inappropriate. Ginny had sputtered and glared at him and asked what _that_ was supposed to mean, but he'd only turned up his nose in that sanctimonious way of his and noted that " _ladylike_ _witches_ wear jumpers over their vests."

This had bothered her so much that she'd had a hushed conversation with her mother about it. This was something she rarely did, because she knew how the trickle-down effect worked; Mum would tell Dad, Dad would tell Bill or Charlie or Percy, one of them would tell the twins, and then _they'd_ make her life at Hogwarts particularly unlivable. (And Ron was also annoying, but he tended to be more oblivious, so she didn't mind him as much.)

Still, Percy was being an absolute _arse_ (and over more than just his Ministry job), and Ginny was starting to feel like things would get worse if she didn't take steps to avoid future smothering.

Molly, however, had not been on the same page.

"Your brothers are only trying to _protect_ you, dear," she'd said, folding laundry. She'd explained this pedantically, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like Ginny was a moron for not understanding as much.

Ginny immediately felt like a fool for ever questioning where Percy had gotten that from.

"And if I do say so _myself_ ," her mum had added, a hint of that holier-than-thou tone rising to the surface, "they are not wrong to be concerned." Then, she'd put a folded shirt down on the sofa, giving her daughter a pointed stare.

Ginny had gotten the distinct feeling that this entire conversation had been building up to whatever her mother was about to say; a second later, she was proven correct. 

Her mum sniffed, turned back to the laundry and casually noted, "And you don't _always_ make the best choices, you know."

Ginny had rolled her eyes so hard that she thought they might've gotten stuck there, but the woman had made her point. No one was ever going to let Ginny forget fucking Tom Riddle and his fucking  _diary_. For some perverse reason, Ginny'd knows her brothers take responsibility for that whole thing, not that it had involved them in the slightest. Still, her mother had all but confirmed one of Ginny's longstanding beliefs: Based on an incident that had happened was she was eleven — _eleven_!— her brothers were likely to monitor her interactions with the opposite sex, likely to make vague comments about her, likely to drive her to take a damned vow of celibacy just to get them to _shut the hell up_.

Which, she supposed, was probably the point. Not that she'd ever actually go that far.

Despite her brothers' best efforts, the _looks_ from boys at Hogwarts had followed shortly thereafter. By the end of her fourth year (and after two boyfriends), she thought she'd seen all of the ways that boys could look at her. This "catalog"— if you will — had ranged from the grotesque (a leering up-and-down glare beneath waggling eyebrows) to the innocent (bumbling, blushing, unable to meet her eyes).

But Harry's gaze had been different, even from the very first time he'd truly noticed that she wasn't simply another anonymous extension of the Weasley family. Naturally, Ginny remembered every moment of this encounter, even if she hadn't dared look into it too much.

They'd been walking to the field to play two-a-side Quidditch. Ron and Hermione had been walking ahead of them, lost in their own world as they bickered softly about sun cream.

"But _Ron_ ," Hermione had implored, "Your skin is so fair! Surely you'd prefer to fly if we could find a way to cover the sunlight, perhaps through an engorgement charm on an umbrella, or-"

" –But the whole _point_ of Quidditch is that you're playing in the open air, Hermione!" Ron had cut her off, incredulous. "Why would I _want_ to play underneath an umbrella if I'm trying to fly around in the air?"

Harry and Ginny had shared an eye-roll, a habit that they practiced often when it came to Ron and Hermione.

But this time, Harry had stilled a bit after he rolled his eyes, his brow furrowed in curiosity.

"Huh. Your shirt is the exact same shade as your hair."

His tone had been observational — _interested_ , even — like he'd just learned a new fact worthy of sharing. His green eyes were focused intently, but they weren't critical or appraising. Instead, his gaze was akin to how he might observe a complicated transfiguration spell, as if Ginny had just been shifted into something else, something completely different, right in front of his eyes.

And Ginny suddenly realized two things, in very quick succession: One, that Harry had never really looked at her that closely before. And two, that he was absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, doing that. _Right now_.

As such, she'd been caught off guard, but she'd righted herself almost immediately. Just because Harry was _looking_ at her didn't mean he was interested in her. And besides, she was sure she'd worn this shirt several times this summer. And besides _that_ , she had a boyfriend.

Ginny'd suddenly found herself a little embarrassed that Dean was the last thing she'd thought of in that sequence.

In an effort to rectify the feeling of guilt that had settled in the pit of her stomach, she'd just shrugged back at Harry, her face the epitome of nonchalance. "Red is red, I guess." The garment wasn't anything special, really.

Harry had paused in his path and cocked his head like he was about to refute this. He was interrupted, however, when Hermione stepped in an old gnome-hole and began shrieking.

Since Ginny had spent most of her first three years at Hogwarts analyzing every single one of Harry's comments, she hadn't read too much into this interaction. He may have been a _decent_ bloke, but he was still a bloke; living with six brothers had taught her that they weren't exactly hardwired to notice things like hair colors.

Still, she couldn't deny that he'd looked. And that his _look_ was different.

It wasn't lascivious or suggestive or lewd. It wasn't entitled, demanding. It didn't make either of them uncomfortable in its awkwardness. In fact, the look in his eyes was so pure, so _open_ , that she didn't even feel the need to offer a single thing to propel the conversation forward.

...and with a complete degree of certainty, _that_ was something that Ginny had never experienced before.


	2. Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read and review! Thanks!

By the end of summer, Harry starts to notice her skin, too. But in his complete obliviousness, he reckons it's only because it's so different from her hair.

What's that called? When two colors look really different from each other? He stares at her legs as the four of them lounge by the pond and he wracks his brain, trying to come up with the right word. Ron is sleeping, Hermione's reading, but Harry and Ginny are both content to just _be_ there _,_ caught in some in-between space as they lie out in the sun.

Of course, Harry doesn't  _know_  he's staring at her legs. He doesn't even know he's looking at her skin, even as he tries his hardest to find the perfect word to describe it. All he's been able to accept thus far is that her hair is  _interesting_. At this particular moment, Harry has nowhere near enough self-awareness to realize that staring at someone for prolonged periods of time – and studying individual body parts – isn't typically associated with platonic friendship.

Aha! It's  _contrast_. That's the word. He smiles and feels vaguely triumphant as he continues his lazy cataloging of his best mate's sister's body. Yes – her skin and her hair are in perfect  _contrast_.

Because her hair is red – but it isn't  _just_  red. It's a lot of colors together that make it red. Her skin, though, is more uniform. Most of it's pale,  _extremely_  pale. Harry knows that "pale" isn't a word associated with positive things, but he can't think of the other word he's supposed to use. When Ginny blushes (which she still does from time to time, though nowhere near as much as she used to), her skin reminds him of the color of Aunt Petunia's china. But then  _that's_  an awful comparison, too, because he'd prefer to avoid thinking about the Dursleys at all costs.

Still, he can't deny that her skin is this kind of...pure ivory white color, one that has peach undertones, like it's a china bowl lit from behind by a sunset. He's also noticed that when she gets angry or sneaks a sip of Firewhiskey or even if she spends a little too much time in the sun, she turns a different color, a much darker shade of red, one that starts on her chest and spreads, clawlike, from there.

Suddenly Ginny shifts, arching her back as her chest tilts towards the sun.

Harry swallows.

Her chest has freckles, too. They look like flecks of chocolate that have been spattered from varying distances. Like someone has taken a brush and pulled back the bristles and just aimed it at her.

Is that weird?  _Yeah_ , he realizes. That's probably weird.

He feels a curious tightening in his pants as he continues staring at her chest, and he's thankful that he'd opted for trousers and not swim clothes. He's mesmerized, drawn in by the way she's completely in her element, just enjoying the summer afternoon like no one's watching.

It takes him two seconds to realize, in horror, that this  _is_  what she thinks; he averts his eyes as quickly as he can.

Harry's face turns the same color as Ginny's hair as he berates himself for somehow  _forgetting_  that no one likes to be stared at. He's lived through that enough times to know exactly how true it is. There's no reason that Ginny, of all people, would be an exception to this.

In a desperate effort to think about anything else, Harry clears his throat and suggests that they head inside to help with dinner. Ron and Hermione are too absorbed in sleeping and reading, respectively, but Ginny turns to him, blinks, and then hastily scrambles to her feet.

But her balance must be off, because she's risen so quickly that one of her feet trips the other one, and she somehow manages to topple over – right on the spot – before uttering a muffled swear.

Harry lets out a gentle laugh and glances down at where she's splayed out on the grass. Her face is flushed a deep red, one that's close to the color of Ron's Christmas sweaters, but Harry's eyes aren't drawn to her face. Instead, they travel down  _down_  down, until they're inexplicably focused on a patch of fair, freckled skin near her hip.

He grins and offers a hand to help. She responds with a bashful smile and takes it, using the leverage to hoist herself up. Harry swallows again as she stops to bend at the waist, brushing her palms on her shorts. A white bra strap has crept down from underneath her vest, and it's resting near her shoulder on the arm that isn't covered by her side-swept mane of red hair. It's another nice contrast, he thinks – that stark white against the fair ivory of her shoulder.

Ah, yes, that's the word –  _fair_! Not pale. Ginny's skin is  _fair_.

Harry shakes his head as she finishes straightening herself. He's rather chuffed that he was able to cobble together some basic art knowledge from Muggle primary school. He's remembered two new words today: contrast and fair. Maybe the whole experience wasn't a complete waste of his time, after all.

The smirk stays on Harry's face as the two of them head inside, even though walking is made slightly difficult because of the full erection that's trapped between his jeans and his thigh. Still, he doesn't think much of it; Sirius had warned him about this, about how hormones would do crazy, random things to his body. Harry's confident it'll go down once they get inside, but he doesn't bother following the logical progression of this thought or admitting how, exactly, he knows that this is true.

When he wanks later in the shower – an act that he justifies, again, because of his hormones – he also doesn't focus too closely on how the Cho and Fleur of his fantasies suddenly have ivory-colored legs and freckled chests.

* * *

If Ginny had to use a single word to describe Harry Potter, it would be  _complicated_. And since she's the type of girl who allowed a man in a diary to take up residence in her brain,  _complicated_  isn't a term she uses lightly.

 _Complicated_  also isn't a word she'd use to describe 99% of teenage boys. She thinks Ron is a rather classic example of a teenage boy, actually, with his obliviousness and his tendency to say the worst possible thing in any given scenario. As such, it's a little odd that his male best friend is so much more observant. She doesn't question this friendship, though, because having Harry around – and actually being  _comfort_ _able_  with having Harry around – is an activity that has her inner eleven-year-old jumping for joy.

She knows that Harry has this warped view of the world, one in which he's convinced that he owes everything to everyone, even though he's more than proven himself. A key example of this is how he's so perpetually grateful to her parents for doing basic  _parent things_ , even though he's already saved the life of more than one person in her family. And also, her parents just... aren't pricks. This is another concept that Harry seems to struggle with – the fact that some adults actually  _act_  like adults.

That being said, she knows Harry is still a teenage boy, even if his particular brand of teenage boy looks so different from Ron's. So in addition to doing things like obsessing over his fate and going out of his way to be noble and trying to avenge everyone who has ever died, he also stares at things like breasts and legs.

She doesn't even know if  _Harry_  knows that he checks girls out; his methods are so fleeting in their surreptitiousness that they could be easily mistaken for anything else. But when it comes to Harry, Ginny specializes in the  _anything else_. She's seen Harry do it several times over the years, especially when Cho bloody Chang was in DA with them. But then –  _even then_  – Harry never did anything more than quickly glance at Cho's bum from across the room, or make a rapid-fire pass over the general area where her breasts might've been beneath her robes.

In front of Fleur, he's slightly less discreet, but Ginny doesn't particularly blame Harry; when it comes to that cow,  _everyone_  is slightly less discreet. She, herself, is less discreet around Fleur, but this just presents itself in the form of being unable to hide her disgust or hold her tongue whenever they're in the same room. Ginny also forces herself not to think too much about that one time Ron made a weird half-joke about "unlimited wanking material" now that Fleur's joining the family, and how Harry did that fervent-nod-blushing-in-agreement thing before they both remembered that other people were in the room.

 _Prats_.

Based on that conversation alone, Ginny forgives herself for the occasional behavioral indiscretion around Fleur. Besides, she reckons her eye-rolling and feigned vomiting are nowhere near as offensive as blatantly staring at her arse whenever she walks past...and she's seen literally every single one of her brothers do  _that,_  including Bill. Harry does it too, but on him it looks more respectful and cursory, like the perfect arse of a quarter-Veela is something he's only casually noticed. It's a load of bullocks, Ginny knows, but Harry manages to pull it off in a way that only he can.

So when Ginny notices Harry's casual gaze as they relax by the pond, she doesn't think much of it. He's not doing the quick-up-and-down-eyes-averted thing. He's not even doing the blushing, clearing-his-throat-changing-the-subject thing. He's just staring at her like she's almost...interesting? From her periphery, she can see that his head is cocked, and his expression suggests that he's learning – or perhaps  _observing_  – and that looking at her spurs this process along.

She's happy to help him with whatever he needs.

A tiny, deep-down, wanton part of her is enjoying this far more than she should, even though she knows Harry isn't looking at her  _like that,_ because if he were looking at her  _like that_ , she'd know. She's had years of experience with  _that look_. She saw it today, in fact, when Fleur "accidentally" forgot that she hadn't brought clothes with her into the shower and was subsequently "forced" to traipse around in a towel. (And yes, Ginny admits, even to herself, that everything about this assessment is unfair, but it's one of the many,  _many_  things she's refusing to acknowledge regarding her future sister-in-law.)

Still...this look from Harry is different. His stare doesn't even make her uncomfortable, not in the slightest. Not even as it travels up her legs to her shorts to her vest. She doesn't feel like he's taking advantage of her, or that his gaze is inherently sexual. It's more like he's slowly putting the pieces of a puzzle together, one corner at a time.

She's so confident, in fact, that he's not looking at her  _like that_ , so convinced it won't matter...that surely she could just – ?

Ginny bites her lip for a split-second – the only real forethought she gives her to next move – before she arches her back, jutting out her chest as far as she can. She manages to suppress a grin; she can still feel Harry's eyes on her, warm and curious. He certainly doesn't  _mind_  whatever he sees. Besides that, she's not technically doing anything wrong. She's not even in a swimming costume, just her shorts and a vest, the same thing she's worn all summer.

She manages to look fairly natural, she thinks, like maybe she's only trying to get a better angle from the sun. But then she tilts her head casually – so, _so_  casually – and sees that Hermione is giving her a pointed smirk from over the top of the book she's been pretending to read for the past hour. Ginny is still deciding if her response to Hermione should be haughtily bluffing about the whole thing or just _owning it_ when Harry awkwardly clears his throat. When he asks if they should be going inside to help with dinner, she doesn't miss the way his voice suddenly sounds all deep and gravely, much like Dean's did the last time they snogged.

 _Dean_.

Shit.

Ginny's heart sinks, and she immediately feels like the biggest piece of rubbish alive. She has a boyfriend – one she's rather fond of. One she's snogged three times. One who was very respectful when she'd gently swatted his hands away and repositioned them.

And then a thought rises, unbidden, regardless of how hard she tries to suppress it:  _She's not sure that she would_ ever  _swat Harry's hands away._

 _Shit_.  _Shit_ _ **shit**_ _shit._

A shiver runs up her spine and she tries to stand up as quickly as she can. Her mind is going a thousand miles a minute, all possibilities turning over in her head, and she's moving so quickly and so frantically that she doesn't even notice when one foot slides in front of the other in her haste to  _get away_...

Aaaand of course, she proceeds to topple to the ground – arse over head – in a way entirely too reminiscent of the little girl who wrote poetry about fresh pickled toads.

From her slumped pile on the ground, Ginny knows that Harry's laughing (or at least chuckling). But she's too humiliated to look up. She knows he's not laughing  _at_  her – this is Harry, after all – but she also knows that he finds this amusing. Which it  _should be_. Which it _is_.

Right.

She turns to face him and, of course, he's already offered out a hand. She begrudgingly accepts it and tries her hardest not to think about the way his warm palm engulfs hers, about how the muscles on his arms ripple as he helps hoist her to her feet. She's just starting to brush her shorts off in an attempt to maintain the tiniest semblance of her dignity when she feels the warm gaze of green eyes from where he stands in front of her. She doesn't even need to look back to confirm the truth, because it's one of those things she  _just knows_.

Harry's staring at her.  _Again_.

She's able to contain her smirk long enough for them to begin their wordless trek back to the Burrow, but after she's determined that Harry's lagging several paces behind her, she lets it explode across her face into the smuggest grin she's ever produced in her life. She'll stop grinning by the time she goes inside, she knows...but she decides that she  _deserves_  this, this tiny little indulgence, if for no other reason than to satisfy her younger self. This feeling of satisfaction isn't damaging or dangerous, especially because he isn't even looking at her  _like that_.

He's just... looking. For the sake of looking. And what could be the matter with that?

Ginny takes a deep, confident breath, and her eyes flutter contentedly as the Burrow comes into view. She's dimly aware that some internal change has transpired, and perhaps the reason is that she's no longer caught in the cycle of indecision on how she's going to handle this with Hermione when it comes up later. She's firmly decided she that won't be brushing the whole thing off. Or pretending that she wasn't preening. Or denying that Harry had been staring at her.

No...

She will  _absolutely_  be owning it.


	3. Hands

When he finally realizes he fancies her, it hits him with the strength of the Hogwarts Express.

It's not a subtle feeling like it was with Cho.

It's quite the opposite, actually, which he supposes shouldn't surprise him as much as it does. The only two girls he's ever been interested in have vastly different personalities. It should only follow that his subsequent awakenings to each of these romantic interests are nearly as different as the girls themselves.

When Harry thinks back on the whole Cho fiasco, he admits that the most the two of them really had in common was an almost-friendship over a shared interest. That type of _fancying_ was an innocent inkling that gnawed away at him over time, one that flushed his face and sprouted butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

And Harry gives himself a little credit, because he thinks that maybe that's why it's taken him so long to figure out how he feels now; if he had to use one word to describe his interest in Ginny, "innocent" would most certainly _not_ be the term he chose.

So maybe – _maybe_ – that's why he doesn't properly get it until he sees her hands on Dean Thomas.

It's all over the second that he and Ron catch the two of them snogging behind a tapestry. Ginny's ivory fingertips are clutching the back of Dean's neck as she brings his mouth closer to hers. Dean has bowed his head down to meet her, and Ginny's body is leaned up against the wall, twisting towards his like she can't get enough, like she needs the contact to breathe.

And Harry feels himself shifting – in an instant. It's like a veil is being lifted, like the walls are dissolving around him, like he's tasting an unpleasant food for the first time, one that chills him on the way down his gullet and settles with a sickening splash in the pit of his stomach. He's immediately filled with an overpowering, thunderstruck desire to... to do _something_. And as he and Ron walk back to the Gryffindor tower, he still can't quite put his finger on exactly what that _something_ might be.

But he sure as hell knows it's different.

Later, Harry lies in his four-poster in a miserable, conflicted strop. His arms and legs are thrown about in random, uncomfortable positions, and he's not sure who, exactly, he should blame for this. The whole _snogging interaction_ has left him with a gaping, empty chasm where his stomach used to be, and it feels like an animal is ripping him open again and again as it gnashes its teeth in delight. Harry would really prefer if this animal just finished the job and went for the rest of him instead of settling in his chest between bites.

After several hours, he finally drifts into an uneasy sleep, but it's not the same _type_ of uneasy sleep he encountered all of last year. He isn't even really filled with a sense of nauseated discontent like he was in the hours he sat and stared at the canopy of his four-poster. Instead, his dreams present him with the same feeling he had earlier – that sensation of a profound shift sneaking up from behind him. He reckons it's more unnerving and soul-shaking than anything else.

Being smacked in the face with his own obliviousness is compounded by the fact that these dreams are...  _realistic_.

At first, they catch him off guard, and this is probably because it's immediately apparent that they aren't filled with dark magic. They aren't tugging at his nobility streak. They don't feature death or destruction or blood. The dreams don't cause harm to anyone he cares about – even to Arthur Weasley.

But one of these dreams, one that Harry reckons will haunt him for the rest of his days, _does_ feature certain activities involving Arthur Weasley's only daughter.

This dream starts innocently. Harry's at Quidditch practice with the whole team and he's standing on the sidelines, offering expert advice on Quaffle passes. His teammates are enthusiastic recipients of his every suggestion, and they all respond beautifully as they duck and dodge and tumble their way across the twilit sky. In fact, they're performing such elaborate moves— and reacting so cheerfully— that Harry realizes it's a dream as soon as it starts.

But just as quickly, he decides he simply doesn't care; it's one of those rare dreams that he's still able to enjoy even though he know it's happening. And after the _other_ dreams he's had this past year, ones that were totally out of his control, he decides he's entitled to this minor indulgence.

Suddenly though— without Harry even noticing— everyone's vanished except for Ginny and him. And he doesn't know why, but he really, _really_ likes that feeling, of the two of them being alone together. Dream Ginny seems to like it too, because she smiles as she stares down at him. A blanketed silence covers the grounds, almost like there's cotton in his ears, but all Harry pays attention to is how her ivory white thighs straddle her Cleansweep, and how she has a trail of freckles extending beyond the edge of her shorts. It's autumn and he doesn't know why she'd be wearing shorts in the Scottish Highlands, but this is another one of those things he ignores.

After he's done openly gawking at her legs (which Dream Ginny acknowledges admiringly), the two of them just stare at each other for a few seconds in a kind of comfortable, easy silence. Then, without breaking their contented eye contact, Dream Ginny slowly begins to descend from her broom. She steps off daintily and begins a kind of languid prowl towards Harry, taking care to lift and replace each foot with a perfected grace; the fact that her broom has disappeared is another thing that he chooses to disregard. Her steps are deliberate, almost catlike, and she's wearing a satisfied smirk as her eyes penetrate his.

Then, when their faces are mere inches apart (when he should have been able to hear her breathing or feel the warmth of her body) she snaps her fingers, winks, and she's suddenly standing before him wearing nothing but that coy little smile.

He sucks in a breath because _holybuggeringhell,_ how has he not known until right now that Ginny Weasley is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

She's lovelier than any naked girl in any magazine, although he knows that his perception of what she looks like is only bits of these women all cobbled together. Her long red hair (or the hair that's not technically red, he still can't decide) is covering her breasts, but he can make out their gentle swell. They look like they'd fit his hands perfectly.

He glances lower and sees a vague blend of curves and freckles and creamy skin and he's so taken by the sight of her that he whimpers— actually _whimpers—_ even in his damned dream.

But Dream Ginny doesn't mind, this not at all...in fact, it seems to please her, and arches her back like Real Ginny did that one time by the pond. With her head tilted back, her long red hair just grazes over her rosy pink nipples, and for the first time, it occurs to Harry that she has the most supple, lovely, _glorious_ breasts.

It also occurs to him that he'd very much like to touch them, to test his theory that they'd fit perfectly in his hands, even though he's never really thought much about what any specific woman's breasts might feel like. Dream Ginny can obviously read his mind, because she quirks an eyebrow, slowly reaches for his hand, and brings it _closerclosercloser_ , and suddenly his fingers are _just_ curling around, _just_ grazing her nipple, when—

 _SHIIIIT_.

He bolts upright in bed, heart hammering in his chest as if he'd run the length of the Quidditch pitch. The pieces of reality slowly come together before his eyes as he pants in bewilderment, staring into the darkness. He's in his bed, he knows that much; he can feel the soft weight of the blanket on his legs, and he can hear Ron snoring from the four-poster near his.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. He's in bed. And he's not in any danger.

_Right._

But Godric, has he _ever_ had a more realistic dream? He shakes away the shuddering thought that it was almost like being inside Voldemort's head...but no...Ginny isn't Voldemort. She could never be Voldemort, because she's _lovely_.

He swallows. _She's lovely._

It's about then that he notices the enormous wet spot covering the lower half of his torso.

 _Bullocks_.

He groans in mortified frustration and rubs his hand over his face. Harry's not a total moron; he knows what this _is_ , and he knows what's happened. Even before Sirius had prepped him for this possibility, he'd figured it out after the third or fourth time he watched Ron ball up his sheets and dart to the showers before anyone else woke up. Harry'd always just assumed he'd gotten lucky and skipped out on that particularly embarrassing aspect of adolescence.

Of course, he should have known better, because he isn't really the type of bloke who gets to experience any significant measure of luck.

Harry shivers. The spot on his stomach is getting colder, more uncomfortable, and there's no way he'll be able to fall back asleep while he's covered in _this_. He gingerly steps out of bed, and as he does, his pyjamas and sheets cling to him in sickening ways. It reminds him of the times he's been covered in vomit, but Harry's quite confident that excuse wouldn't work now; his current...  _predicament_... looks very incriminating indeed. If anyone caught him like this in the middle of the night — with his shirt sticking to his stomach, his cheeks flushed, his sheets crumpled in his fist — they'd immediately suss out what had happened.

An icy bolt fear races up his spine. _Anyone_ catching him like this wouldn't be that big of a problem, would it? No... it's _Ron_ catching him like this that he needs to worry about.

 _Bloodybuggeringfuckinghell._ He slams his eyes shut and tries his best to take slow, even breaths as he stands there with this soiled sheets, utterly unsure of how he's supposed to handle this.

The rational part of his mind knows that even if Ron did catch him, he'd have no idea what Harry dreamed about. But Harry's fairly sure that Ron also knows that he's never had one of _these_ dreams before. And Harry's so consumed with this hot, oppressive guilt and so smothered by this bizarre kaleidoscope of different emotions that he's not sure the real answer wouldn't slip right past his lips if he were asked even one probing question.

He snorts ruefully. Yeah, he can imagine _that_ interaction going swimmingly. "Hello, Ron, my best mate! We've been best friends since we were literal children, and now we've grown into teenagers. And since we're teenagers, we've spent lengthy amounts of time — in this very room! — discussing things like wanking techniques and sex positions. How am I, do you ask? Hmm? Oh, yes! I'm doing well, thanks, except for the fact that I just had the most amazing wet dream about your little sister and spunked all over myself. Funny how life works!"

Just the thought of that mortifying conversation solidifies Harry's decision to skitter back to his four-poster like a coward, wet clothes be damned.

He throws his soiled sheets under his bed and grabs his wand to perform a rapid _Scorgify_ on himself. It isn't enough, he knows, but it'll cover the evidence until he's able to properly wash in a few hours. The house elves will also be by to tidy the room, and they'll be discreet with getting rid of the sheet. Harry feels a little guilty about it, about making them deal with...with _that_ , but he's sure they've seen worse.

Having dealt with the evidence, Harry settles back into his bed. And it's only then, when he's staring at the ceiling of his four-poster and lying on a bed that's been completely stripped of linens, that he finally allows himself to accept a fact that he's been denying for months.

 _Shit_. He swallows again, blinking in the darkness.

This is why he cares about Ginny's hair, isn't it?

This is why he gets erections — and now he knows they aren't random ones— whenever he thinks about the way her freckles dot her chest. This is why his wanking fantasies have been so much more specific since summer — although they've fallen short of featuring her explicitly. At least for now.

This is why his stomach has been in turmoil since he saw her snogging _that complete_ _arsehole_ who was his friend, his schoolmate, until a few hours ago. He shoots a glare across the room in the direction of Dean's bed, even though both of their curtains are drawn. Harry's quite sure that wanker is sleeping peacefully. He reckons being properly snogged by Ginny Weasley would do that to a bloke.

Harry's also numbly aware of the fact that he's no better than all the tossers in school who openly lust after her. He's seen the looks she gets, the way boys blatantly turn their heads to stare at the way her fiery red hair dances over the swell of her bum. He's had to interrupt a few overheard conversations in various lessons with a pointed glare and the clearing of his throat, lest Ron catch wind of whatever vile things are being said.

But if Harry overheard _anyone_ discussing her now, it wouldn't be _Ron_ those morons would have to worry about. He clenches a fist; the monster in his chest is already stirring over something that hasn't even happened yet.

He shakes his head, honestly not sure if anyone alive has ever been as thick as he is. Harry also ponders the possibility that this is some type of cosmic punishment for not being interested in Ginny when he had his chance. He'd certainly deserve that much, he thinks.

He huffs out a frustrated breath. He's not sure how he's meant to get through Quidditch practice this week. Or how he's meant to look at her and pretend this hasn't happened. Or how he's meant to accept the Weasleys' hospitality in future without turning into a smoldering pile of guilt.

Actually, all Harry's 100% solid on right now is that his stomach is so sick and so empty he's not sure when or if he'll ever be hungry again.

Just before daybreak he drifts into another restless dream, but this one is worse from the very beginning. Of course, it begins with him staring at Ginny's arse as she hovers directly above him on her broom; she's the theme of the night, isn't she? Harry doesn't have long to stew on that, though, because his gawking is interrupted as Ron emerges from around a corner, his face contorted in rage. He spends the rest of the dream being chased by his Beater's bat as Ron bellows about "betrayal of trust!"

Harry wakes up slightly earlier than everyone else and scampers to the loo, doing his best to ignore the whole thing. And while he's in the shower washing specific spots more than others, he manages to delude himself into thinking that the first dream was a weird, one-off event. He also thinks that maybe the second dream was enough to put an end to the whole affair, really — to that sordid, stupid little fantasy that he'd ever be...  _with_ her.

Because that's all it is. _Stupid_.

This act — this feeble casuistry — comes crashing down at Quidditch practice when he catches sight of Ginny mounting her broom. Harry's instantly blasted back to the sight of her snogging Dean behind the tapestry, and although he hasn't even considered it until now, he figures out, almost immediately, exactly where Dean's hands must've been during that... interaction.

 _Fuck_.

The fruitless mission of pretending he has only brotherly feelings for her is further compromised a second later when Ginny kicks off from the ground. A bit of her fair stomach is exposed as the wind ripples around her, and Harry does his utmost to pretend he hasn't _already seen_ a little patch of ivory skin near her hip from that one day by the pond.

He also does his utmost to pretend that _Dean_ hasn't seen even more than that; this denial only encourages the nascent monster in his chest.

He watches Ginny grip her broom tightly, one hand over the other, as she begins tranquil loops around the pitch. He also tries (in vain) not to think about how those hands gripped Dean's neck. And how much he'd like her hands to grip _his_ neck.

Or any part of him, really. He's not fussy.

Harry swallows as she flies further into the distance, her lithe form a blur of bright red hair and windswept cheeks and chocolate freckles. And he marvels at how much easier his life was, only 24 hours ago.

* * *

Ginny'd decided some time ago that her boyfriends don't really need to know what — or, more aptly, _who —_ she thinks about while they snog.

This habit had started with Michael, and it's one that's nearly impossible to articulate or explain. It wasn't that she'd particularly _disliked_ Michael. He wasn't the worst first boyfriend she could have had, even if he was a bit whiny. Ginny had attributed that tendency to typical teenage bullshit before she'd figured out that's just who he was as a person. They'd been on the brink of a breakup even before _Cho bloody Chang_  had entered the scene. And to tell the truth, Ginny'd been rather chuffed the whole thing played out like that, because it gives her a reason to despise Cho that sounds semi-legitimate.

But now she's with Dean. And for all intents and purposes, he's nearly picture-perfect. He's sweet. He's sensitive. He's always doing things like drawing pictures for her and holding her books and offering to help her. In fact, his acts of chivalry are so overt that they almost echo those of a different era. He’d once gone so far as to lay his robe in front of her when she’d left Potions because he’d noticed a puddle on the floor.

Ginny knows that most girls would have responded to any of these gestures by batting their eyes and hanging off his arm and gushing to their friends about what a _good boyfriend_ he is.

But Ginny isn't most girls.

And most of the time, it takes every ounce of her self-restraint to not _roll_ her eyes instead of batting them.

She also knows that she'd be promptly misunderstood if ever tried to explain this… situation... to anyone; it's not that she has _no_ feelings for Dean. He's good-looking, he's a genuinely kind person, and he's never questioned why she cares so much about fighting Death Eaters and the like. (That was another thing that Michael had struggled to grasp.)

And if Ginny is being totally honest with herself, there's a specific reason why she tolerates his misguided attempts at nobility: Dean is, at heart, just trying to prove he's capable of treating a woman better than his father had. Ginny'd sussed all that out long ago, actually — that these little demonstrations are his way of compensating for the fact that his own dad had walked out.

Back when they'd first started dating, back when they were still getting to know each other, Dean had casually described his home situation. He'd skated around outright admitting as much, but Ginny had been left with the firm impression that this abandonment (although _ages_ ago) had left his mum with a lifelong sense of regret and disappointment. Even though Dean's mother had since happily remarried, Ginny reckons that having your husband abandon you and your infant is one of those things that shakes you forever and skews the way you look at life.

Dean describes his home life as being happy enough, but Ginny thinks it must be a little more awkward than he lets on. However, she also accepts that this might be _her_ projection, because if she were in his shoes, _she'd_ be uncomfortable. When he's at home, Dean's the only boy, the only non-biological child of his stepfather, and the only wizard in the house in general. He seems perfectly content, but she reckons that things must be a bit weird upon occasion.

So, for all of these reasons combined, Ginny cuts him some slack. She firmly understands that _most_ of what Dean does — while annoying — is based out of a desire to feel useful. His methodologies are based on twisted logic at best, but Ginny knows it's only a fraction of the type of twisted logic that other people ( _Harry_ ) use on a daily basis. Dean only really, truly strikes a nerve when he does something she's deliberately told him not to do, because _th_ _en_ it's outright intentional.

Ginny also spends a lot of time trying not to analyze what it means that she tends to be attracted to boys who are in search of proper homes.

Still, all-in-all, she reckons that Dean would be a perfect boyfriend... if were dating literally anyone else. Ginny's not quite sure how she would even go about explaining any of that, though, because she _does_ fancy him. And it's not like she _needs_ a boyfriend at all times, but there really is no one else she'd rather date, even if she finds herself chanting _nope-nope-nope-nope-not-going-there_ as quickly as she can whenever that thought so much as crosses her mind.

So for all of these reasons (and more), Ginny decides that Dean doesn't need to know that she _sometimes_ thinks about _someone else_ while they snog.

Even as she's in the moment and letting her fantasies run wild, though, Ginny knows how wrong this is; she has a conscience. However, in her defense, these drifts in…  _imagination_ … usually have a trigger.

One day in October, this trigger was Dean full-on gripping her arse without permission. They'd been snogging behind the greenhouses after class, and Ginny had swatted his hands away as she normally did when he got a little too curious. But instead of affably shrugging it off in his typical Dean-like fashion, he'd started to pout — actually _pout_! Ginny had gaped at him, eyes wide in disbelief, as he'd started muttering and whining about how they'd "been together almost _five_ _months_!"

Needless to say, he hadn't seen that Bat Bogey Hex coming.

Ginny knows she has an unfair reputation as a bit of a slag, but the only time she'd particularly cared about that was when _Dean_ put any stock in those rumors. As the bogeys had soared out of his nose, she'd told him, in no uncertain terms, that the _amount_ of time they'd been together meant absolutely nothing, and that he could go snog Lavender Brown if he was interested in covering territory more quickly.

Ginny probably would have been content to leave well enough alone, but the next morning she'd found Dean waiting anxiously for her outside the portrait hole with flowers, a letter, chocolates, the whole bit. Before she'd even opened her mouth, he'd stumbled over himself apologizing and pleading and reassuring her that he'd _never_ pressure her again, and that he'd only done that in the first place because Seamus had put some dumb idea in his head, and how he never should have listened to Seamus because he's a wanker, and oh, _God_ –-

Ginny had placed a finger on his lips, silencing his verbal deterioration. She'd then informed him quite curtly that she wasn't mad about the touching — but about the _whining_. She’d explained it slowly and calmly enough that she was sure he’d known the difference. He'd then stared at her dead in the face and given her _another_ heartfelt apology, and she'd found it in herself to give him a second chance.

They hadn't done anything (anything at all!) for an entire week after that. And in truth, this would have suited Ginny just fine. If she hadn't been playing Quidditch.

She'd always gotten a bit _antsy_ after practice, and things are especially bad this year. (Of course, deep down, Ginny _knows_ why Quidditch turns her on so much. But she immediately follows this confession with another rousing mental chant of _nope-nope-nope-nope-not-going-there.)_

Still, near the end of the week, things had built up enough that she'd deliberately tried to snog Dean. However, in an attempt to reclaim his chivalrous reputation, Dean had only responded to her advances with chaste kisses before bidding her good night. This had left Ginny feeling rather frustrated. It wasn't like she'd _needed_ much more than a casual snog, but she had to admit that snogging was nice. Especially after Quidditch.

As such, she'd felt quite justified in touching herself that night. She'd done it like she always had — kneeling on her bed, one hand balancing herself on the headboard, the other working furiously between her legs — until she'd climaxed with a silent shudder. This time had been a lot quicker than usual, a lot more powerful, and she'd taken extra care to pretend that she hadn't been envisioning a pair of curious green eyes staring at her the whole time.

The next morning, Dean had politely greeted her outside the portrait hole and asked permission to hold her hand. Ginny'd known this was one of those moments that other girls would be tittering about and gloating over how _respectful_ and _courteous_ he was, but she'd honestly found it jarring and smothering that he'd even had to ask. Still, she'd agreed. And all they'd done — for the next two days! — was hold hands.

So it's clear to see how she'd been ready for a snog in the final days leading up to the Colossal Clusterfuck — or the event in which Harry and Ron had interrupted her snogging her boyfriend. This had also triggered Ron's relationship with Lavender Brown. And Hermione's downward spiral. And loads of other awful things, Ginny's sure.

And the whole thing could have been avoided if they hadn't come straight from Quidditch practice... and if Dean hadn't started it by staring at her legs. 

Naturally, Ginny already knows that Dean's _into_ legs because she'd seen him staring at hers for months last year, even before they'd started dating. She doesn't mind how Dean looks at her, though; it's respectful enough, but his glance always carries a hint of longing. It's the type of look that makes her feel desirable, and not in a creepy way.

So _that_ gets her blood pumping a bit, the thought of Dean looking at her and fantasizing about her while she flies around.

But of course the biggest reason she's so eager to fall into his arms — the reason she is denying above all others — is that Harry looks _unfairly_ _fucking_ _sexy_ while he's commanding the team, and she hasn't quite settled herself into that role yet, of him being...  _in charge_ of her. His strong, calloused hands had gripped his broom and he'd bellowed in that deep voice, one that sent vibrations through her chest.

Ginny goes through all of practice like this... listening to Harry's voice, watching Dean stare at her legs, and she's not terribly shocked at how abysmally she plays.

When Dean corners her after practice — his voice low and gravely and almost, _almost_ close to another voice, one she'd just heard — she gladly accepts his offer for a snog in the first secluded place they can find. He's much taller than her, _so_ much taller, but she's always rather liked this: It's dark in his shadow, and she can allow her mind to wander as he presses her body against the stone and mutters how she  _drove him crazy up there_.

...and now, of course, is when that nasty little habit kicks into full force: The one where Ginny doesn't _always_ think about the person she's snogging. While she's snogging him.

Dean's lips are warm as they brush against hers, but before she can help herself, she's already pretending they're Harry's.

She convinces herself this isn't _so_ bad, not this time... she's just seen Harry at practice, she and Dean have just had an off-again period, and she honestly doesn't care who _Dean_ thinks about right now. But then he moves his lips to the column of her neck, and she stops thinking about anything at all.

Having given herself permission, Ginny fully commits herself to this fantasy as the snog grows more intense. She imagines it's _Harry_ whose finger-light touches are gently caressing her bum over her jumper, that it's _Harry_ whose lips are moaning her name as she arches into him, that it's _Harry_ whose hard length is now pressed against her thigh as she pulls his head down to meet hers.

Then, almost as if he's been summoned, the _real_ Harry pulls open the tapestry and promptly shatters this delusion. And for an instant, Ginny just stares at him, wide-eyed, as an icy wave of irrational fear crashes over her body. She's panicking, convinced she's been found out.

...had she actually moaned his name?

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckkkkk._

But then Ron starts yelling and bellowing at her and she relaxes a bit, because it's _easy_ to respond to that. Anger is a far simpler way to handle things. It's a reaction that requires much less nuance, much less introspective analysis. And besides, she _is_ angry — just not as angry as she is utterly and completely mortified that the entire Colossal Clusterfuck has taken place.

Afterwards, she storms back to Gryffindor tower after publicly screaming at her brother and nearly bursting into tears in front of _Harry (_ of all people!) and she's not surprised to find that she's too furious and humiliated to sleep, even hours and hours and hours later.

All night long, Ginny fumes and grits her teeth and stares up at the canopy of her four-poster. She tries to pretend that Harry's expression of thunderstruck hurt and bewilderment was all in her head, a figment of her imagination, just like when she'd pretended to be snogging _him_ in the first place.

And it never crosses her mind — never occurs to her even slightly — that she hasn't thought about Dean. Not once.

* * *

 


	4. Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone, and thanks for sticking by this story! Things are heating up. This chapter is M from the first sentence to the last due to typical teenager shenanigans (masturbation, language, brief sexual contact, etc.) No real smut.
> 
> Thanks to Hedwig and Goods who helped with the pacing/plotting of this chapter! :) 
> 
> Please read and review :)

Harry puts up a valiant front to avoid thinking about Ginny while he wanks.

He feels this is an admirable accomplishment, especially after their quidditch match.

He still can’t decide if hugging her after the game had been one of the worst or best decisions of his life. The embrace had lasted a split second, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget how perfectly she’d fit against him, how her gentle curves had pressed into the hollows of his edges. And then after the game, she’d continued the torture (albeit indirectly) by touching his arm in the common room. As he lies awake in bed that night, he can still feel ghostly trail of her fingertips, can still see the pale ivory of her hands dancing across him. He’s not sure if his stomach will ever stop swooping.

As such, the tiniest part of him is actually thankful that the Lavender situation has developed. Ron’s alleged infatuation with a girl he’d only vaguely known about yesterday nevertheless ensures that his best mate is even less likely to...  _pick up_... on certain things.

Which is a blessing for Harry, who hasn’t gone a single night without a wet dream since late October.

But he’s determined to persevere in his mission not to think about Ginny while he wanks, because while he’s begrudgingly accepted that he _does_ , in fact, have feelings for her, he isn’t quite ready to embrace that level of perversion.

At least while he’s awake.

He can’t much help that his dreams have taken on a mind of their own; it’s not like _Conscious Harry_ is the one who is actively in charge.

Regardless of his efforts, though, his dreams soon escalate from fairly innocent to obscenely graphic. By the second or third straight week of this, Harry feels quite ashamed at what his mind is capable of imagining. He’d never thought — not in a million years — that he’d ever be fantasizing about his _best mate’s sister_ in so many inappropriate circumstances that surely even Seamus would blush at the depths of his depravity.

Harry isn’t sure where he’s even _learned_ about all these different scenarios, actually, and for a couple of days in early December he actually kicks around the delirious possibility that these visions have been planted in his mind.

After all, it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened; Harry just doesn’t see how his limited knowledge of what sex entails has provided him with enough content to even _think up_ things like this. Sirius certainly hadn’t mentioned anything this... detailed _._ He also doubts that the occasional glimpse at a dirty wizarding magazine has left an impression this lasting, especially since he can hardly remember what'd happened in those magazines in the first place.

However, Harry eventually accepts — with a mixture of relief and self-disgust — that Voldemort wouldn’t have much use for making him dream about things like bending Ginny’s arse over the couch in the common room or finding out if she smells like flowers _everywhere._ And he’s subsequently forced to admit that he’s just a rude, randy teenage boy, like all the others he knows.

This is much harder to concede than he’d thought it would be, because even without knowing it, Harry has always thought he was better than that. He begins to fear that he’s not so different from Malfoy and Zabini and all the other repulsive blokes in his year who do things like loudly rank girls based on body parts or make suggestive hand gestures whenever they walk by.

As a result, Harry becomes a bit concerned that his feelings for Ginny have warped him into some vile, vulgar version of whoever the hell he used to be. It’s maddening, really, how even the tiniest, _least_ sexual things set him off these days — Ginny licking her spoon at dinner, the curve of her arse around her broom handle, the way she pushes sweaty red tendrils off her face during particularly intense quidditch practices. On several occasions, his body has responded to her (completely innocent) gestures with such an immediate, thundering arousal that he’s been forced to remain at the table a bit longer or pretend to have a stitch in his side just to save face.

He’s still so damned embarrassed that he’s _this_ attracted to her and so confused about how it took him so long to suss it out that through the middle of December, he’s content to wake up sticky and panting and _bloody frustrated._ Throwing his sheets under his bed and making a mad dash to the shower are now daily rituals, ones that are — in his opinion — worthy sacrifices.

Taking this calculated risk every morning is inconvenient at best, but it enables Harry to maintain the fragile facade of nobility he’s honed and crafted for years. Refusing to _directly_ think about Ginny also allows him to pretend that he’ll be able to accept guilt-free future offerings of warmth and hospitality from the only real family he’s ever known.

After all, what his _mind_ is doing isn’t intentional; it’s biological, something he can’t control.

Of course, not thinking about Ginny while he wanks really means that Harry doesn’t wank at all... for six entire weeks. For a sixteen-year-old, that’s a nearly insurmountable task, but somehow Harry manages.

Another problem is that until quite recently, he’s been satisfied with his wanking material; it’s consisted almost exclusively of Cho and Fleur and random female body parts, but even then, it’s never been... _personalized_. Or particularly intimate. He’s mostly thought about how they’d look naked, and nine times out of ten, envisioning their bits bouncing has been enough to finish the job.

Thus, the biggest reason he’s held off wanking to Ginny (and thus held off wanking at all) is because he knows — _just knows_ — that he’d use everyday nuances of her personality to help himself along. He’s quite sure that he’d incorporate her laugh or her coy little smirk when she’s being clever, or even the way she flings her hair over her shoulder when she gets annoyed.

He knows he’d make it far too individualized, far too specific, far too _detailed._ He’s not sure he could maintain even a casual friendship with Ginny if he knew he’d be intentionally cataloging every interaction for his dirtiest fantasies. Harry's disgusted at the notion of consciously making Ginny the subject of something she’d never agreed to... even if she’d never know it had happened. (Of course, Harry doesn’t stop to consider, not even for a moment, that Cho and Fleur’s feelings have never mattered this much.)

So perhaps this all conveys how Harry had _tried_ not to think about her — really, he had.

He’d even gone so far as to cast multiple silencing charms around his four-poster each night on the off-chance he’d do something really embarrassing, like moan her name in his sleep. He’s well aware that he’s sharing a room with both her boyfriend and her brother, although he highly doubts he’s the only member of the boys’ dorm who has had _that type_ of dream about her. The thought alone makes him clench his jaw, even though he knows he has no right to that level of possessiveness.

One frosty morning, though, he wakes up and realizes that the charms must have worn off overnight (or perhaps been applied incorrectly in the first place), because Ron’s able to hear him stirring and asks if he’s ready to go down to breakfast.

Harry freezes, horrified, as he realizes two things: First, that Ron has been much more attuned to his nighttime utterances since the nonsense last year. And second, that it’s nearly Christmas, which means that he and Ron are about to share a tiny room. At Ron’s parents’ house. With Ginny in extremely close proximity.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuckkkk._

Harry trudges down to breakfast, glad that Ron is too caught up with Lavender to notice his conflicted strop. He can’t believe that he hasn’t put these pieces together until now, but he supposes that his idiocy should have been well-established; after all, he'd spent quite some time being too bloody thick to notice that he’d fancied Ginny in the first place.

And just as before, it isn't until now that the weight of the situation finally hits him: He won’t be able to use magic over the Christmas hols. Or discreetly dispose of his sheets. Or avoid the girl he’s been lusting over for months.

Harry sits in the Great Hall and shovels food in his mouth as quickly as he can. He doesn’t even feel like pretending that he’s disgusted with Ron and Lavender at the moment, because he’s far more disgusted with himself. It’s never been clearer that his exhaustive attempts at maintaining any semblance of integrity have all been absolutely, completely pointless.

So with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, one not unlike plummeting several hundred feet below the ground, Harry finally accepts a truth he’s been denying for weeks: He needs to wank. And he’s going to think about Ginny while he does it.

He doesn’t make himself wait long.

He marches to the shower after quidditch practice that very evening, brimming with a combination of determination and unease. He still feels guilty, but he knows what he has to do. He’s got no choice, not if he doesn’t want to do something with life-changingly embarrassing consequences.

Like spunking on her brother’s sheets.

Harry shudders at the thought and takes a quick glance around to confirm he’s alone. He turns on the tap and steps beneath the stream of water, promising himself that he'll  _make it quick_ , at the very least.

This is a promise more easily accomplished since he knows exactly what he’ll think about, even before he starts.

It’s quite cold outside, and Ginny’s taken to wearing these trousers. _If_ _you_ _can call them that_. They’re black and tight and fitted, and all during practice he’d done his best to ignore the visible line of her knickers whenever she’d bent over mid-flight.

Harry glares down at his body mutinously. He's ashamed at how little it’s taken to get him to this point, but it further proves that he really has no damn choice. 

So with a resigned sigh, he relaxes into the gentle warmth of the water, and in another second, _he’s off._

He sucks in a gasp of relief as he finally allows his hand to begin working, and before he knows it, he’s moving faster and harder than he has in months... perhaps faster and harder than he _ever_ has. Even in the midst of his blissful fog, though, a thought occurs to him from somewhere in the deep, murky bowels of his mind. It’s a notion he’d never dare to articulate, one that confuses him more than anything, but even as he distractedly turns it over and over, he accepts it as truth: Harry knows — _just knows —_  that he’s embarking on a fantasy of self-pleasure from which he’ll never truly recover.

But Harry doesn’t have time to really analyze what this means, not while images of Ginny are dancing across his mind’s eye, ones that are even more glorious and filthy and _perfect_ than he’s ever considered while wanking before. It’s a thought process utterly lacking in subtlety, one that contains none of the subtext he’d constructed over the summer. Gone are the vague references to Cho somehow having red hair or Fleur having freckled legs.

No... this act is an act that is deliberate. Passionate. _Hot_.

And in an embarrassingly short amount of time, he has his most intense, gratifying orgasm to date. It slams into him like a relentless wall of white-hot pleasure, and all Harry can do is cling to the fragmented pieces of consciousness as stars explode behind his eyes. He stays slumped over in the shower until the image of Ginny straddling his lap the same way she’d straddled her broom finally fades into nothingness.

Several moments later, Harry returns to his own body to find that his forehead is pressed to the tile and that his knees are shaking under his weight.

He's pleased to note that the shower has easily washed the considerable mess he’s made. He hasn’t had to dispose of sheets or avoid standing up straight or make a mad dash anywhere, and he wonders why, exactly, he's waited so long to do this.

He towels off and gets ready for bed, feeling better than he has in weeks — more satiated and relaxed than he’s been in _ages_. He’s able to drift into an easy sleep for once, even with thoughts of Horcruxes and Malfoy and schoolwork all marching in his distant periphery.

And he doesn’t wake up covered in spunk, which is always a plus.

Unfortunately, though, Harry sees Ginny in the Great Hall the next morning, and the answer to his question — the one about _why he’d waited_ — smacks him over the head with its obviousness. She’s giggling and holding hands with her _bloody boyfriend_ , the one she’s had for _ages_ , and Harry’s stomach fills with so much molten, bubbling, oppressive guilt that he decides to forgo breakfast, after all.

Of course, none of this stops him from wanking again. And again. _And again_. It’s his new ritual, one he settles into with surprising ease. Christmas hols are fast approaching, but even this doesn’t bother him as much as he’d thought — not with his number one source of frustration having been addressed.

His feelings for Ginny are still there, he knows, but now that he’s allowed himself to engage in this particular vice, his attraction is much more manageable. The monster in his chest continues to roar whenever he sees her, but wanking provides a form of temporary relief, one which forces said monster beneath the surface and reduces it to the occasional whimper.

And this is a strategy that would have worked fairly well, he thinks, if only Slughorn weren’t hellbent on having Harry at his damn party.

Harry knows it’s going to be a special event, a fancy occasion in which everyone is meant to bring a date. Harry also knows that Ginny is in the Slug Club, which undoubtedly means that she’ll be bringing _Dean_. The thought of seeing the two of them all cozy beneath the mistletoe, all warm and giggly under the influence of various expensive imported beverages, is enough to send Harry into a series of much sadder masturbation fantasies in which she actually returns his feelings.

So when he bumps into Luna after Transfiguration on the day of the party — just hours before he’ll undoubtedly have to witness Ginny and Dean _together —_  he already feels primed to do something mad. In retrospect, he realizes that few people could compel a person to madness and spontaneity more efficiently than Luna.

It starts out with him and Luna having a fairly casual chat, one that wouldn’t seem out of place, even for them... but then Luna utters Ginny’s name, and before he knows it, Harry actually hears himself inviting Luna to go with him. _As friends_. 

And in an equally surprising turn of events, she agrees to go.

 _Right_.

Harry doesn’t understand his own behavior, can’t even fathom _why_ he’s chosen to invite her, until Ginny finds him in the Great Hall and she tells him he’s made a good choice.

And as he watches her settle next to Dean further down the table, it occurs to him that Ginny is right; he _has_ made a good choice. Luna will be a brilliant distraction, one that focuses all of his attention away from unpleasant things he’s got no control over whatsoever. Luna isn't the worst company he could have, either. It's a bit refreshing, being around someone who always manages to raise eyebrows. 

Nevertheless, Harry finds himself a bit disappointed that Ginny doesn't show; he spends the rest of the evening trying not to think about what she's doing instead. 

The next day, Harry catches sight of her as she boards the Hogwarts Express, and he immediately regrets his childish feelings of anger.

Because Ginny doesn't look well. 

She's very pale — paler than usual, so pale that her freckles stand out starkly against her fair skin — and she looks _tired_ , or perhaps even a little peaky. 

She's still beautiful, though; Harry reckons there's not much she could do to change that. 

He hoists his trunk into the air and spends a few awkward moments staring at her from afar. She's giving him this weird look, and it's almost like something is flashing behind her eyes. He's certain he hasn't seen her eyes _do that_ before, but it's something he can't quite isolate or describe.

After a few moments, he tears himself away and heads down the corridor.

Harry clears his throat, because _no_... he can't afford to read into this, and by the time he and Ron settle into a compartment, he's convinced himself that Ginny was just annoyed he'd been blocking the path. He glumly sits with this thought for the entire journey home, glad — not for the first time — that Ron is the oblivious sort when it comes to things like this.

Harry's jolted from his morose reverie when the train finally arrives back at the station, and it doesn’t surprise him in the least that Ginny catches his eye as soon as she darts into the corridor from her adjacent compartment. He watches her through his window as she stands on her tiptoes. She’s clearly reaching for the handle of her trunk, and Harry’s first instinct is to get up and help her — but he’s worried this would seem too obvious. Besides, he _knows_ Ginny; she’d probably refuse his help, anyway.

So instead, he just stares. And for the first time, he does absolutely nothing to pretend he isn’t doing it. Harry merely gazes at her with longing as her bum lifts and tightens beneath her trousers. Her arms are tiny — just like the rest of her — but they’re strong enough to support the weight of her trunk. Harry tends to think this is adorable. Not that he’d ever tell her.

 _Shite_... and now the luggage is falling into her arms and she's bouncing, _just there,_ before sweeping her long red hair over her shoulder. Oh, and Merlin help him, she’s actually bending over to pick up the handle. Harry can feel the heat rising on his face, and he finally turns away to see that Ron’s already standing up and headed for the door. He takes this opportunity to adjust himself as discreetly as he can.

The two of them head down the corridor, and Harry does his best to put one foot in front of the other, even as Ginny’s hair dances over her bum from just a few paces in front. 

He clenches his jaw and tries to suppress his attraction to her, at least until he can get someplace private. This is a task he's used to accomplishing by mentally berating himself — just as he does during most quidditch practices. And so he begins repeating “ _She’_ _s got a boyfriend._ _She’s Ron’s sister._ _She doesn’t fancy you.”_ over and over until he finally gets himself under control.

Still, in this moment of weakness, Harry allows himself to accept a crucial truth. It’s a fact he's been denying, one he's been too shrouded in guilt to consider.

But now?

He watches her bum bounce as she skips down the steps of the train, and he feels himself growing harder as she does. Harry shakes his head, a bit overwhelmed at his own stupidity. If merely _watching her_ is causing him this much distress, he _never —_  literally never — could have survived an entire holiday without a wank.

The tiniest smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

 _Yes_... he's made the right choice. 

* * *

If Ginny actually sleeps the night of the Colossal Clusterfuck, it isn’t for long. She’s still angry and hurt and bewildered — so much so that she truly feels _lost_ in a way she hasn’t been since her first year. Which is... unsettling, to say the least; she’s not sure how it’s possible that being interrupted during a snog has left her feeling nearly as violated as a literal Dark Magic possession.

By the time early morning light begins to peek in through the curtains in her four-poster, though, Ginny has realized one thing for certain: She _needs_ to talk to Dean.

And she _needs_ to slow things down.

Because if _Har_ — if _anyone_ got the wrong idea about her, about the type of person she is — she’s not sure she’d be able to handle that.

She gets ready for the day in a complete fog, scarcely remembering to bathe and dress correctly. She's distracted, absentminded, forming lists and lists in a prepared rant of why, exactly, they need to _slow_ _down_ during a time in their relationship when others might have expected them to speed up.

They haven’t even made it down to the Great Hall before she drags Dean to a secluded corridor to say her piece. She’s filled with this burning, fervent compulsion to make her point known before this can get any more intimate _at all_ , even though she knows this is a bit mad; logically, it would be hard for them to cover any new sexual territory over bacon and eggs.

But nevertheless, she yanks Dean by the arm and stands him in front of her, because this positively _cannot_ go any further. Any further at all.

Ginny had thought that the serious look on her face would have provided a clue as to where this is heading, but Dean seems to miss this entirely; he just responds by wagging his eyebrows rather expectantly, a wolfish grin on his face. 

It’s the first of _many_ awkward misunderstandings in the conversation they’re about to have.

At first, Ginny doesn’t even understand why he’s doing that— wagging his eyebrows and looking coy— so she just stares at him, puzzled, until she figures out _what_ _the hell_ he’s getting at.

The answer doesn’t really occur to her until she takes a glance around.

_Oh!_

She just shakes her head, suppressing a shudder. _No_. They might be in a corridor, and it might be an _abandoned_ corridor, but she doesn’t think she could possibly be _less_ interested in continuing what they’d started last night.

At this point, Ginny starts to get a bit frustrated, even though she knows this is a little ridiculous. She has six brothers, and she knows that blokes are generally terrible at things like making emotional inferences. Nevertheless, she finds herself growing annoyed that she needs to _explain_ why this isn’t a good moment for romance or intimacy.

Then she glances up to see that Dean’s looking at her with his brow furrowed. His expression has morphed into one of confusion and hurt, and _shit_ , it looks like she’s actually going to have to spell this out.

So Ginny steels herself and decides to get this over with. She refuses to meet his eyes, but nonetheless says her piece; she wants absolutely no room for misapprehension, no space for confusion as to what their future holds.

However, in what becomes the biggest shock of their relationship thus far, Dean agrees to her terms— almost before she’s even finished putting words together.

In fact, she’s barely uttered, “ _Let’s take things a bit slower_ ” when he’s suddenly accepting so quickly that he stumbles on his words and blends them together.

So Ginny pauses and stares at her boyfriend, a little confused. She’d made an entire list of reasons _why_ , just in case he’d asked, and now she’s not quite sure to do with all of these...justifications. It seems a bit silly to go off on a righteous rant about why she wants to slow down if he’s already completely ok with what she’s proposing.

But she also doesn’t want Dean to think this is somehow his fault, and based on the way his shoulders are slumping and his face has started to fall, she sees this as a distinct possibility.

So she picks the best reason— the one that’s most accurate, and the one that she knows Dean will accept the most readily— and voices it as casually as she can.

She clears her throat. “I’ve already been called a slag. And my own brother nearly called me one last night.”

The last bit leaves her in a blustered, furious rush, one that takes her off-guard with its ferocity. She pauses, swallowing.

The memory of what Ron ( _and Harry_ ) had seen— and subsequently reacted to— is still so fresh, so shameful, so mortifying (and had she seriously cried _in front of Harry_? Was that a thing that had actually happened?), that Ginny has to take a few deep breaths while she collects her thoughts.

For once, Dean seems to understand the seriousness of the situation, and he waits rather patiently for her to finish speaking.

“We’ve talked about this before,” she starts again, inspecting her nail beds, “how a boy and a girl might do _exactly_ the same thing in a relationship, but be judged completely differently.”

She’s still not ready to make eye contact, but she can feel Dean nodding from where he towers over her; Ginny supposes his complete acceptance of the circumstances makes her comfortable enough to allow an errant surge of anger to slip in, too— it’s a rare, vindictive wisp of rage, one that she’d otherwise keep tucked away.

And so she snorts in derision as a bitter edge creeps into her voice, one she has no chance of suppressing, not while she’s still so damned livid.

“Because we _both_ know that no one will be calling _you_ a slag, will they, even though we were both—“ Ginny makes a vague hand gesture, and trails off, feeling only marginally better for having said that. Which disappoints her, to say the least, because she’d really hoped a good rant would help get rid of some of that anger.

She reluctantly tilts her head up to stare at Dean, unsure of what she’ll find reflected in his dark brown eyes.

Where she’d expected indignation and frustration, though, she only sees adoration. And _hurt_.

Oh, _bugger_ , this is going so much worse than she’d thought...

“Ginny,” he breathes, bringing his large hand down to caress her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. I...”

He abruptly pulls away, running his hand through his hair. “ _Fuck_. I didn’t mean to pressure you, honestly! I haven’t done that in _ages_ , not on purpose, and I _still_ feel terrible about that, and if you want to chuck me, I completely understand, because if I were you I’d probably feel—”

Ginny just lets out a long groan, hoping it’ll be enough to cut him off.

He snaps his head up to meet hers, and she’s pleased that this is all it’s taken to stop his babbling. _Good_. She hadn’t really felt like apologizing, not when the circumstance wasn’t anyone’s fault.

“I’m _not_ chucking you,” she says plainly, a bored expression on her face.

It’s the truth; she can’t think of a single reason to end things. She _does_ fancy him, and he’s been on his best behavior, and as long as he’s content to follow her lead, she sees no practical reason why their relationship can’t continue.

Still, she’s fully aware that he isn’t the love of her life...at least, not as far as she knows. She shifts her weight, suddenly uncomfortable. _Is_ that something you’d just know? If someone’s the _love of your life_?

Honestly, she isn’t so sure anymore, but she suddenly finds herself hoping that Dean is on the same page there; with a decent degree of certainty, she knows that a “ _slow-it-down_ ” conversation seems infinitely better than an “ _I-hope-you-know-this-is-casual-and-we’re-teenagers_ ” conversation.

She’s still chewing this over in her head when Dean yet again proves himself completely oblivious to her inner turmoil. He’s clearly just processed the fact that she’s not chucking him— something she’d honestly almost forgotten she’d even said— because he sags with relief against the wall and gently takes her hand.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll just...let you decide. Ok?”

Ginny gives him a warm smile. _Yes_. Much better.

* * *

For days, Ginny’s been completely caught up in the fallout from Colossal Clusterfuck ( _and Harry_ ), and the way she’s re-focused her relationship with Dean to be much less physical in case anyone ( _Harry_ ) were to catch them again that she hasn’t had time to think of much else.

Of course, now that she’s at the post-quidditch celebrations ( _where she’_ _s_ _just_ hugged _and_ touched _Harry_ _),_ she’s wasted zero time in informing Harry of what a bloody hypocrite his best mate is, even if her specific reasons for needing to defend herself trigger another mental chant of _nope-nope-nope-nope-not-going-there_.

In fact, she’s been _so_ overwhelmed in her quest to maintain even the tiniest shred of dignity that she doesn’t realize she’s the world’s biggest arsehole until Hermione runs from the common room with a muffled sob.

And it’s only as she stands in the middle of the party that all the pieces actually come together. The most cringeworthy aspect of the Colossal Clusterfuck— one she’d somehow managed to suppress until now— swims to the forefront of her mind.

The color drains from Ginny’s face as she watches Harry chase after Hermione, his jaw clenched in grim determination.

Her own words from the Colossal Clusterfuck suddenly float back into her consciousness like she’d said them in some sick, twisted nightmare, and for just a moment, she allows herself to cling to the false hope that it _is_ a nightmare. Or that she’s remembering incorrectly. Or that she’s exaggerating what she’d actually said.

But then she glances over at Ron and Lavender, who haven’t breathed out of their own mouths in nearly an hour. And she knows it’s real.

_Shittttt._

She swallows and lifts a shaking hand to massage her forehead. _Yep_ , this is her fault. One hundred percent.

Had she seriously announced that Hermione had snogged Krum? _Seriously_? Even worse, had she actually admitted that _to her brother—_ who’s been arse over tits for the girl for even longer than he’s been aware of himself? And, perhaps worst of all, had she actually _challenged him_ to get more experience?!

Ginny lets out an impressive string of curse words and runs a hand down her pale face. An aching remorse begins to pound from deep in her chest as her stomach sinks to her toes. She feels dizzy, _nauseated_ , like the walls are tilting and closing around her. She makes mechanical movements to an armchair in the far corner of the room, scarcely able to hear the celebratory whoops and cheers from teammates and housemates alike.

Her mind drifts to all the late nights giggling and plotting with Hermione at the Burrow. All the times Hermione’s given her advice on how to handle Harry. All the times Hermione’s helped her to revise.

Ginny grits her teeth, liable to vomit at any second, filled with the sick knowledge that _this_ is the type of person she is now. _This_ is how she’s repaid one of her oldest friends. _This_ is how she’s ruined someone’s life. She’d been so blinded by her own mortified selfishness, so _consumed_ with the fact that she’d been found in a moment of weakness, that she’d all but thrown Ron into the arms of someone else...someone who had scarcely known that he existed prior to September.

And now, Ginny’s certain that the _least_ of Hermione’s worries is that she doesn’t have a date to Slughorn’s party. She remembers how excited Hermione had been when she’d told her that Ron had agreed to be her date, how her face had been filled with happiness and joy and backlit with an expression of _hope_ — one Ginny had never seen before.

But now, Hermione isn’t any of those things, is she? Ginny sucks her teeth, more disgusted with herself than she can articulate in words. _No._ Hermione is probably feeling so heartbroken and undesirable and  _confused_ that she doesn’t know which way is up _._

And perhaps the worst part— the part that Hermione herself doesn’t even know about yet— is that her romantic history has now been exposed, a history which Ginny had only been told herself under the strictest of confidences.

Fuck fuck _fuckkkk_.

Ginny shakes her head, thoroughly convinced she’s the worst piece of shit alive, and wonders if there’s enough Butterbeer in the common room for her to get blind-drunk enough to numb this away.

Then Dean crashes into her field of vision and interrupts her monologue of self-hatred.

“ _Hey_!” he says, grinning, and Ginny suppresses a groan. As always, he’s oblivious— completely, _totally_ fucking oblivious. Based on the way he’s swaying a little, he’s also had more to drink than she has, which might explain a fraction of his inability to read her.

But she has no interest in sharing _why_ she feels so terrible, and she definitely has no interest in doing so with Dean, of all people.

So instead she settles for a half-smile, even as her stomach continues to churn. “ _Hey_.”

Dean responds by shoving a plate of food under her face, one the house elves must have provided for their celebrations, and this time, Ginny’s unable to stop the bile from rising in her throat. Merlin, even _thinking_ about food right now is enough to turn her stomach; having it shoved under her face is a fresh level of torture.

So she pushes the plate away with a muffled, “ _Sorry_ ” and bolts up the stairs as quickly as she can.

Ginny stays hunched over the toilet for the next several hours. Whenever she thinks that her stomach has stopped punishing her for this act of betrayal, she remembers the look on Hermione’s face— and in an instant, there she is again, crouched on her knees, dry-heaving until she can hardly breathe.

It’s not until long after everyone has returned to the dormitory and gone to sleep that she dares leave her perch.

She doesn’t deserve to participate in any degree of frivolity. She doesn’t deserve to hear congratulations or indulge in a retelling of her performance or listen to speculations about winning the House Cup.

What she _deserves_ is to feel like shit. And she rewards herself accordingly.

As such, Ginny doesn’t make the weak, boneless trek to her four-poster until past one in the morning. She steps lightly, careful not to wake anyone. She opens the curtains around her bed, praying that her dreams will provide some degree of relief from the weight of her own conscience.

But she has no such luck.

Two things are sitting on her pillow: a tin of ginger biscuits and a piece of parchment that’s been folded into a letter. Her name is written across it in that neat, blocky scrawl she’d recognize anywhere.

She just stares at the letter for a moment, willing herself to believe that it’s not there. Of course, she already _knows_ who it’s from, just as she knows (vaguely) what it will contain. Apparently, though, the universe is telling her that she needs to feel even worse tonight.

And Ginny Weasley has never been one to deny fate.

She sucks in a breath, reaches for the letter, and unfolds it with shaking hands.

 _Shit_.

It’s a drawing— of _course_ it’s a drawing. It’s beautifully done and cross-hatched and filled in, and she supposes it’s meant to depict what she’d looked like mid-flight. The quaffle is clutched possessively against her right side, her long hair is billowing in the breeze, and she’s wearing an ecstatic, _proud_ grin, one that couldn’t possibly be any further from the look on her face right now.

Her eyes drift down the page to see if there’s a signature...and sure enough, the letters DT have been written in that same blocky text.

Now, though, there’s a new addition, one that’s never been there before: Dean’s letters are followed by an intricate drawing of a tiny black _heart_.

For a second, Ginny just stares at it, wide-eyed, her body paralyzed and stock-still.  
  
And before she has time to consider anything else, even for a second, she turns on her heel and races back to the loo as fast as her legs can carry her. She's so intent to leave, to be anywhere _but there_ , that she doesn’t even notice as the parchment slips through her fingers and flutters through the air in her wake. 

* * *

Ginny feels blessed that she’s blown through November (and most of December) in a kind of numb mindlessness.

For the first time in her life, she’s grateful that OWLs are approaching. They’ve been the perfect excuse, really. She’s been allowed to avoid the common room ( _Ron and Lavender_ ) to spend late nights studying in the library ( _with Hermione_ ), even if she’s mostly done so in a desperate, seeking attempt to make herself feel marginally better about the whole thing.

She hasn’t told Hermione about it yet— that _she’s_ the reason for her misery— but intentional avoidance is only part of the problem; Hermione has been rather keen to act like Ron doesn’t exist. And if Ginny can prolong having _that_ conversation, she will, even if it makes her a coward.

Dean, for his part, has stayed true to his word and allowed her to take the lead. He’s been content with chaste kisses— at least outwardly. Ginny’s caught a pained expression on his face more than once when she’s pulled away for the evening, but he hasn’t protested a single time.

Still, she knows Dean is...getting frustrated. That much would have been obvious, even if he hadn’t been the type of bloke who’d always taken an odd degree of pride over his erections. Once upon a time, she’d found this endearing— _enflaming_ , even. Now she just finds it a bit bizarre that he insists on pointing out his arousal, _every single time,_ like he actually expects her to do something about it.

Ginny knows he doesn’t do it to pressure her. No...it’s more like Dean thinks— in his bizarre interpretation of chivalry— that she’ll feel his erection and be impressed. Or perhaps that it’ll prove his dedication. Or perhaps that it’ll somehow convince her that he only gets them for  _her_ , and no one else.

This strategy may have been effective on other girls, but Ginny has six brothers; she’s overheard enough conversations to understand that this isn’t how erections work.

Still, she’s never acknowledged it, and neither has he, and she’s been quite content with that level of communication regarding Dean’s penis.

But this all changes on the evening of Slughorn’s party.

Per usual, she spends the day in this headspace of guilt and misery, especially since she knows that Hermione won’t be coming to the Burrow for the Christmas hols. Which— again— is completely her fault.

She supposes she’s been looking forward to Slughorn’s party in an abstract sort of way. It’ll be nice to sample the various food and drink options, both of which are sure to be nicer than what she sees on a daily basis. She isn’t necessarily excited to go, but she can’t think of anything else she’d do instead; even revising has its limits, after all. So she makes plans with Dean to meet at 7, and she reckons the two of them will have an enjoyable evening surrounded by couples who are equally confused about why they've been invited in the first place. 

But then Luna rushes up to her before dinner, her face filled with that kind of dreamy happiness, and she informs her that Harry’s asked her to the party — _as friends_!

Ginny pauses, mid-step, and just stares at Luna like she's said something even stranger than usual. Ginny knows she’s being absolutely, insanely ridiculous...but somehow, she actually feels a sharp sting of envy rising in her chest. And this feeling is so strong, so overpowering, that it actually takes her breath away.

_What?_

She hears herself congratulating Luna and telling her how much fun she’ll have, but her head is spinning as she enters the Great Hall. She’s not even jealous— not anymore. Not _rationally_. She knows that Harry specified he’d go with Luna _as friend_ _s._ Besides, she’s not sure if Harry actually has “a type”, but if he does, she’s fairly sure that Luna wouldn’t fit the bill. And Ginny would never admit it— not to anyone— but she knows that Luna has a tendency to be a tad...out of touch with reality. 

Still, Ginny is _confused_ about why she’d been jealous over that, and this just adds to her bubbling feelings of regret and shame and mortification and self-hatred, and honestly, she’s just _exhausted._ She’s tired of putting on a brave face and pretending that everything is ok and acting like she hasn’t ruined anyone’s life.

She finds Harry in the Great Hall and tells him how excited Luna is to go with him— which is the truth. This brief conversation helps her feel a bit better about the whole thing, because at least it’s out in the open, not something she’s kept inside.

And then, without analyzing her feelings whatsoever, she sits down next to Dean, turns to him point-blank, and suggests that they skip the party and spend the night in, instead.  
  
He responds with a face-splitting grin, and she tries not to think too much about what he's expecting. 

* * *

They plan to meet at 7:30 in the common room. She figures that’s enough time to avoid seeing the happy couples in dress robes as they make their way to the party. She dresses simply, completely devoid of any desire to impress; she's been in a constant state of pretend since November. She needs a _break_.  

When 7:30 rolls around, she finds Dean at the foot of the stairs. She suggests going to the Room of Requirement to get some privacy, and Dean agrees, and before she knows it, they’re snogging on a large plush couch that’s materialized by a fireplace. (It doesn’t even occur to her until later that she’s glad a bed hasn’t been provided, instead.)

And to be honest, Ginny’s a little surprised that she’s enjoying kissing Dean as much as she is.

She’d forgotten what this was like— wrapping your arms around another person and just losing yourself in the sensation of their lips on yours. It’s been an age, she knows...but she’s also been truly, _wretchedly_ miserable. Apart from the stray dream about a certain quidditch captain ( _nope-nope-nope-nope-not-going-there_ ), she hasn’t felt the familiar pulsating tug of desire since the evening of the Colossal Clusterfuck.

As Dean moves his hands to her back, Ginny concedes that perhaps _she’s_ been a bit frustrated, too, with their complete lack of physical affection. Dean hesitates as he begins to lower her to the couch cushions, but she doesn’t protest. For the first time in a long time, Ginny’s enjoying the fact that her mind is filled with pure, unadulterated _nothing_.

She’s never horizontally snogged anyone, but she finds she doesn’t particularly mind it. Dean's cradling his body between her legs, but he's remaining quite respectful, quite courteous, despite their intimate position. He moves his lips to her jaw and starts moaning vague words in the back of his throat and she thinks she picks out phrases like “beautiful” and “lovely”; she shuts off the part of her brain telling her she’s not worthy of any type of praise and just basks in the feeling of _blankness_. 

But everything falls to shit the second Dean moves his lips to the column of her neck. On a chuckle, he whispers, “ _I bet we’re having more fun than they are at the party.”_

Ginny instantly stiffens beneath him, her hands gripping his elbows. Fuck. She could’ve gone all night without thinking of that, without imaging other people at the party, without feeling as guilty as she has for weeks.

So she deliberately chooses not to think...not about _any_ of that. And continues kissing him.

Pretty soon, though, Dean shifts himself upwards for a better angle, and in doing so, his erection finally presents itself. As usual, Ginny’s content to act like it’s not there, because this snog is the first time _in weeks_ that she’s received any measurable degree of relief.

She continues this facade that his erection doesn't exist, even as Dean begins to rub it against her inner thigh and groan from deep in his throat. Still, this doesn’t bother her, not necessarily. She’s fine with allowing it to continue, because it still gives a break from _thinking_ and _processing_ and living under this shroud of torment, just as long as he keeps sucking that one place below her ear...

Still, when he finally pants, “Ginny...can I?” and punctuates the question with a thrust against her thigh, there's little doubt in her mind exactly what he’s asking.

And under normal circumstances, she'd have told him where to stuff it. But everything around her has been so awful and she’s spent so long feeling like complete shite, and she knows— deep down— that Dean’s making a very reasonable request for someone who’s been denied physical contact for as long as he has.

So she meets his eyes and gives him a curt nod. He sags against her in relief, a whispered benediction on his lips, and she feels her face flushing. This is a little embarrassing, no, what he’s about to do? She’s never gone this far— not _ever._ Not with _anyone_ _._

Still, she reaches her arms to loop around his shoulders, and he reacts instantaneously, burying his face in her collarbone as he continues his erratic thrusts. Ginny feels a bit weird about this, though, because this is the same way she’s always slumped on her mother while she’s upset, and now Dean’s using this same...position?...to spend himself.

_Blegh._

So Ginny just bites her lip and stares at the ceiling, trying not to make a bigger deal of this than she should. She doesn’t really feel uncomfortable. Or even that she’s being taken advantage of. It’s more like this as a kind of necessary tax, one that’s long overdue, one that she doesn't particularly mind paying, but one that she doesn't find arousing in the least.

She also knows that if she put her mind to it, she probably _could_ enjoy it herself.

But Ginny can’t fix herself to enjoy this, somehow, not even as she feels how hard he is, how insistent, how _driven_. It’s almost there’s a wand prodding her hip, and she nearly laughs aloud at the thought before she catches herself. But damn...it’s the truth.

And fuck, now that she’s thinking about wands, it’s like the floodgates have been opened, and she’s thinking about _everything_. She’s thinking about how she and Michael had snogged— in this very room— before a DA meeting, and how he’d attempted to deny that he’d had an erection, even though she’d clearly felt it. She thinks about how different her experiences with Michael have been from her experiences Dean, who’s _proud_ of his erections, like they’re actually something worthy of pride.

Dean gives an especially fierce thrust against her thigh, and shit, now she’s thinking about _wands_ again, and how Harry had touched her arm (also in a different iteration of this very room) while he’d instructed her on how to cast her patronus. And there must be something wrong with her, because even as Dean begins panting and grunting even harder against her neck, all she can see is _Harry Harry Harry_ , but it’s not the pleasant or congenial type of Harry she sees at practice...it’s the Harry from the Colossal Clusterfuck.

 _Bugger_.

She shudders a little, but Dean is so intent on his task that he doesn’t notice. Ginny finds she lacks the mental exertion required to stop herself from the thousandth replay of the Colossal Clusterfuck, so she watches it all happen again like she has for the past month and a half...and just as she sees the tapestry being ripped open, the horrified look on Harry’s face, Dean makes a final grunt and freezes on top of her.

Ginny pauses, too, although she doesn't know why. She's never seen this before, but she knows what’s happening— and truth be told, she’s quite glad it’s over.

Then she remembers that blokes have... _emissions_...when this happens, and she hopes that none of _that_ gets on her.

She makes a face before she can help it, but then realizes Dean’s head is still in the crook of her neck, so he wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. But Merlin, she seriously hopes his _stuff_ doesn’t spread through his trousers. He rests on top of her for a few moments, basking in an afterglow she’s come nowhere close to achieving.

After a few more moments of this, she finally clears her throat to remind him that she’s there, and she's just pushing on his chest to move him off of her, when—

“What about you?” Dean's voice is deep, _rough_ , and he’s blinking at through a satisfied grin. 

Ginny lifts herself up on her elbows and stares at him until she realizes he actually expects a response.

And when she figures out what he’s actually _asking_ , her palm covers her mouth to muffle a snort.

Oh, God, no...he seriously can’t _expect_...?

But she looks at his earnest expression, the way he’s caressing her cheek, and she knows he’s serious. This would be hilarious, under another circumstance, because she couldn’t possibly be any _further_ from turned on...

So she clears her throat and extricates herself from him as best she can. “ _No_. I’m...I’m sorry. It’s—" 

But Dean cuts her off with a shrug. “No,” he says in a reassuring voice. “You don’t need to explain.”

Ginny nods and straightens her clothing, and Dean pulls away too, grabbing his wand from the table to cast a cleansing spell on his trousers. He tries to do this surreptitiously, but he hasn’t quite mastered nonverbals; his  _scourgify_ ends up coming out in a weird half-mutter.

Ginny knows Dean's embarrassed, but she doesn’t say anything. She does find this dichotomy a bit odd, though, since he’s so proud of his erections, yet _so ashamed_ of result.

They make a silent trek back to Gryffindor tower, and Ginny offers him a chaste kiss on the cheek before they go their separate ways. Of course, though, Dean takes this opportunity to be overly chivalrous. He wraps both of her hands in his, kisses her knuckles, and whispers, “ _thank you_.” She just smiles and wishes him a happy Christmas.

It’s not until she’s staring at the ceiling an hour later that she realizes how odd it was to be thanked for something she'd hardly contributed to at all. 

* * *

Ginny wakes especially early the next day to board the Hogwarts Express. She tells herself it’s to make sure she has everything packed; she’ll be sharing with _Phlegm_ , after all, and she’s not sure how many of her (relatively sparse) belongings will suddenly become shared items. Thus, she wants to make sure she has everything...just in case.

But the real reason she packs so early is that she doesn’t want to chance running into Dean. Not after last night. She’s spent several hours mulling over his heartfelt _thank you_ , and she’s still not sure what to make of it. She hopes that it wasn’t filled with any degree of expectation and that he'd simply meant to thank her for the...experience. 

Because she knows, quite clearly, that she’s really _not_ interested in taking things any further. _At all_. 

So she gathers her trunk and leaves the common room rather quickly on the off-chance _anyone_ might catch her. She’s rather chuffed with how she’s handled this whole thing, actually, and is almost priding herself on her ability to keep it together— until she sees Harry.

And _holybullocks_ , what has she walked into? 

He's preparing to stow his trunk into the overhead bin, but Ginny just stands there. And _watches_ him. 

His arm muscles ripple as he grips the handle, tendons jumping across his forearms as he smoothly lifts the luggage above his head. He’s already changed into muggle clothes, and he's wearing jeans, and _yesss_. Ginny squirms a little on the spot. The toned skin of his stomach is visible _just there,_ and _Merlin_. She swallows. There's also a trail of black hair, one that leads down _down_ down...and fuck, that answers an age-old question she's always been too embarrassed to ask: Clearly, his hair _is_ that dark everywhere. 

All at once, she feels a ringing in her ears, a rushing in her head, a kind of needy tugging below her waist. Her cheeks flush, her pulse quickens, and _oh shit,_ she's been found out, because now he's actually pausing, turning to _look at her._ Their eyes meet, andGinny and she thinks her heart stops, just for a moment. 

Before, Harry's eyes have been curious. Warm. Seeking.  _Alarmed_ , even. But she looks from his ruffled hair to his rising chest to the way he's staring at her now, and she gulps, because his eyes aren't puzzled. Or intrigued. Or concerned. Or upset. 

They're _hungry_. 

And they're pointed directly at her. 

The two of them just stand there and gaze at each other for a few moments, and Ginny tries her hardest to get her breathing under control. She knows it sounds ridiculous..but Harry's eyes are also penetrating. It's like he can see straight through her with those hooded, deep green eyes, ones that are filled with a newfound need and longing and _desire,_ and damn,she's more turned on than she's been in months and months and _months_...

But then, as suddenly as their eyes had met, Harry rips away, shaking his head as if in a daze. Then he turns on his heel and walks down the corridor without acknowledging her at all.

For a few moments, Ginny just stands there, blinking at his retreating form.

 _What_. _The_. _Hell_.

She watches long enough for Harry to disappear into a compartment, and when he finally steps inside and slides the door closed, she exhales deeply from her nose, so deeply that it ruffles the hair draped around her shoulders. She's overwhelmed with a sense of _release_ _..._ although she's not entirely sure she'll ever know what she's been released _from_ , exactly. 

She collects her belongings and tucks her hair behind her ears with shaking hands, hoping that everyday, routine actions will provide some semblance of comfort as she gets a bloody _grip_ on herself...

 _Because_ , she realizes as she heads down the corridor. _Because_. She swallows as she lifts her trunk above her head, willing herself not to analyze things too much, willing herself to be rational and focus on facts. But no, no, she can't help it, can she? Not if this experience has left her so rattled and confused and bewildered...

Ginny selects into her own compartment adjacent from Harry and Ron's. She'd originally planned to sit with them, but now the very thought is preposterous. Besides, the silence and isolation will do her good, she thinks, before she's bombarded with _people_ 24/7 for the foreseeable future.

And so Ginny takes a seat and stares out the window as the train lurches forward. She bites her lip, finally allowing herself to complete the thought she'd started in the corridor.

 _Because._ If she hasn't imagined that—if she hasn't imagined any modicum of _that look_ — then she's not sure _how_ she's meant to survive living that close to Harry for over a week. 


	5. Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who hung in through this update! 
> 
> THANKS THANKS THANKS to Hills, who helped me tone Ginny down. It's my fondest hope that her biatch levels improved a lot with the second draft. 
> 
> Please read and review!

Being in the same house with her is maddening.  
  
Her constant proximity is so much worse than he’d thought, so much more cloying and disturbing and arousing than he’d ever anticipated, even in his randiest dreams.  
  
He smells her everywhere he goes. In the kitchen. On the sofa. In the garden. Even in Ron’s room, which makes the least sense of all. By his second day at the Burrow, Harry starts to wonder if the whole thing isn’t in his head, wrapped up in the bizarre, lurid fantasy that’s transpired from fancying Ginny Weasley in the first place.  
  
All he has to do is turn the corner, though, and there she is, even more adorable and desirable in the flesh than she is in his memories. She only has to stand on her tiptoes to adorn a decoration or bend over to find something beneath the couch, and almost on instinct, he smells her again, no matter how far away he is.  
  
But there’s only so far you can go in a house that’s not meant to host nearly as many people as it’s been forced to.  
  
His first morning at the Burrow had been an eye-opening experience, one he hasn’t been foolish enough to repeat. He’d worn his pajamas downstairs, just as he’d done a hundred times before. He’d scraped some bacon on his plate, just as he’d done a hundred times before. But then something new and unexpected had thrown a spanner in the works.  
  
Ginny had come flouncing down the stairs in an oversized nightshirt— and perhaps nothing else, but Harry hadn’t been able to inspect her as closely as he’d have liked. She’d proceeded to settle herself directly across from him, casually as you please. And if that alone hadn’t been enough, she’d then bid him good morning in a voice hoarse and worn from sleep, and Harry had instantly been reduced to a stammering, choking mess.  
  
He’d also been rather grateful that his lower half had been completely hidden beneath her parents’ bloody table.  
  
That part had made him feel a bit guilty— that he’d been at _her parent’s house—_ but being attracted to her is one of those things he simply can’t control. He hadn’t decided to get a raging hard-on from the tiniest flash of her thigh any more than he’d decided to have completely unbrotherly feelings for her in the first place.  
  
Of course, Harry had been in full control of his faculties when he’d chosen to immediately retreat up to the shower to envision a variety of mutually-enjoyable experiences in which her voice might sound like that again.  
  
Still, it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? And besides, it’s not like this is completely his fault. How could he possibly have known that something like a _voice_ could be sexy? If there’s anyone alive capable of turning words into gooseflesh on his skin, though, he reckons that person is Ginny Weasley.  
  
The following evening, however, he figures out she showers at night— and yet again, his plans change rather drastically.  
  
At 10 PM, he and Ron are finally making the trek back upstairs after a long day of Christmas preparations. Harry’s still perseverating on Malfoy and frustrated that no one cares and irritated that he’s doing all of this on his own, but then he catches a fleeting glimpse of her wet red hair whipping around a corner, and in that instant, he stops caring about much else. He’d only seen it for a split second, but he’s instantly transfixed by how long and dark her hair looks when it’s wet from the shower. He also enjoys how it’s left a mesmerizing trail of wet patches up and down the back of that same oversized nightshirt.  
  
He mumbles an excuse to Ron about “getting dusty doing Christmas things” and ducks into the loo before he can talk himself out of it.  
  
Then— when he’s managed to undress and get himself under the water for the second time that day— he smells her (again). And he about loses his damn mind.  
  
Harry lets out an agonized groan as his chest fills with frustration, and it’s almost like reverberations of his voice have awakened the temporarily sated monster lurking in his ribcage. For a few minutes, he just allows the warm water to thunder around his head. He thinks he’s losing it— that he’s absolutely _mental_. That he’s been damaged from his encounters with darkness, after all. That his injuries are more than just skin-deep.  
  
But in the middle of this quagmire of self-pity, he turns his head to his left, and a green glass bottle twinkles from the corner of his eye. Oh. He swallows. The bottle is open, he realizes; its glass stopper is next to it on the shelf, which probably explains how he’s still able to smell whatever’s inside.    
  
And it’s right then, he reckons, that he actually puts all the pieces together.  
  
This could explain quite a lot, couldn’t it? Because Ginny’s just been in here. Showering. _Naked_. And she must’ve used this soap or shampoo or whatever while she was wet and naked to—  
  
_Bugger_.  
  
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. He’s certain this bottle must have existed for ages, but he’s never actually been in her house while he’s felt like this, has he?  
  
But now that he’s being even more forcefully reminded of exactly how she smells (and now that his mind has started considering all the possibilities of what she’d looked like in here, just moments ago), he really has no choice but to take care of things.  
  
So he does.  
  
Without a shred of the guilt he’d felt before, Harry reaches for his cock with his right hand. As soon as he touches it, he realizes that his release morning hadn’t been anywhere near enough to get her out of his system; he’s absolutely _throbbing_ . It’s like he’s being filled with Ginny on all sides, like she’s flooding all of his senses, and he doesn’t even try to stop himself from imagining what she’d looked like— in this very spot— less than ten minutes ago.  
  
Perhaps she’d arched her back beneath the spray, drawing deep breaths as warm rivulets coated her hair and ran down her chest. Maybe her nipples had gotten hard, creating an even starker contrast against her fair, creamy skin. (Harry hasn’t seen her breasts, of course, but he’s certain they’re quite brilliant.) Maybe she’d worked some soap into a flannel and run it down her perfect chest, down to the apex of her thighs, where she’d started working even harder, with a much different sort of rhythm—  
  
Oh, _fuck_ , he’s already coming...  
  
Harry moans again as he spills over his hand, but this utterance is much different from the frustrated noise he’d made before. This time, it sounds almost satisfied— or at least as satisfied as he reckons he’ll ever get. He breathes through his release, and _shit_ , it’s utterly brilliant, just like it had been this morning. He’s gotten a bit better at making this last longer, but it’s not quite a fair competition now that she’s surrounding him on all sides.  
  
Several moments later, Harry lets out a soft swear and turns off the tap. He’s not sure how, really, but he’s realized that wanking to Ginny is a completely different experience from wanking to someone who is more or less anonymous. For some reason, this feels personal. Intentional. _Intimate._  
  
He shakes his head as he begins to towel off. Sometimes this whole process makes him a bit sad— though he knows he has no bloody right to feel that way. Still, it’s a bit depressing; he reckons the closest he’ll get to experiencing Ginny Weasley is wanking in the shower after she’s just been there.  
  
But Harry doesn’t allow himself to dwell on this more than he already has. He’s made his bed, hasn’t he? And besides, Ginny’s happy. _Dean’s_ happy. They’ve all made decisions; Harry’s decisions just took longer to reach their logical conclusion.  
  
Harry treks back to Ron’s room, more grateful than ever that he’s allowed himself this minor indulgence. He tucks himself in and pulls his blankets up to his chin as he takes a furtive glance at the sleeping form of his best mate. Yes...for the sake of their friendship, he knows he’s made the right choice.  
  
Christmas Eve dawns bright and early, and for once, Harry’s rather pleased that there’s so much to do. He distracts himself from Ginny by thinking of what he’ll discuss with Remus. He spends the majority of the day turning scenarios over and over in his head with near-delirious speed, attempting to analyze every angle, consider every possibility, ponder every deflection.  
  
It’s not until they’re pulling up carrots for dinner that he’s even reminded of her, actually, but the interruption proves a bit more significant than he’d thought.  
  
He, Ron, Fred, and George have been assigned most of the outdoor chores, but Harry catches a flash of red from the corner of his eye while he works in the garden. Of course, now that he’s spent nearly two months fancying her, he knows that her hair isn’t the same shade of red as Ron’s. It looks closest to the twins’, actually, or maybe Bill’s, but this is something Harry can’t bring himself to examine too closely. He doesn’t reckon it would look great if he were caught staring at Bill’s hair for prolonged periods of time.

Nevertheless, he sees Ginny striding out to the chicken coop wearing an exasperated expression (and she seems to have a bit of a limp, too, but he can’t figure how that would matter), and it’s not until then that Harry even remembers that she’s been sharing with Fleur.

Without realizing where his feet have gone, Harry drops his carrots to the ground and wanders to the chicken coop after her. And almost immediately, he regrets this decision.  
  
His mouth goes dry. Ginny’s bent over ( _oh God_ ) and she’s collecting eggs from the hutch. She’s muttering distractedly as she gathers a makeshift apron with the end of her jumper, but all Harry can do is stand there like a complete wanker, because now he sees even more of her creamy skin...  
  
Harry reckons he makes some sort of involuntary noise when she stands, because almost as soon as she’s on her feet, he watches her stiffen. Her back is still facing him, but he can almost swear he sees the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. _Fuck_. He’s spooked her, hasn’t it? Like the enormous prat he is...  
  
_Great._ Absolutely _great._ Ginny’s spent ages fending off advances from boys at school and dealing with things on her own. Harry’s disgusted with himself. She probably thought being home would be a nice break from all of that, and here he is leering at her while she tries to go about her chores.  
  
Harry’s still debating if he should pretend he’s never been there or if he should awkwardly announce his presence when someone releases an angry shout from the garden. Ginny whips around, her eyes wide and panicked, and Harry realizes he never really had a damn choice, did he?  
  
But to his surprise, Ginny’s face relaxes into a gentle smile.  
  
“Everything...alright?” she asks, somehow managing to look poised and collected even though she’s holding eggs with the bottom of her jumper.  
  
Harry chuckles awkwardly and tries his hardest not to look at the exposed skin around her waist. “Uh, yeah.” He swallows and rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “I...wanted to see if you needed help.”  
  
Harry has a brief moment where he’s impressed that he’s managed to come up with something that seems vaguely plausible.  
  
But of course Ginny’s quicker than that; he reckons there’s not much she doesn’t see through.  
  
She smirks and gestures to the hem of her jumper. “I appreciate the offer, but it seems you’re a bit late. Harry Potter’s been superseded by _clothing,_  of all things!”  
  
Harry puts his hands in his pockets and sighs. “Well, you really should’ve given Voldemort the memo. It would be much easier to kill me with a jumper.”  
  
There’s a pause, and Harry wonders for a moment if he’s gone too far. Hermione’s always gotten weird and emotional when he’s made comments like that. Ron’s always laughed a little too hard and changed the subject. Harry’s never understood either reaction, not really; he’s always thought the concept of his near-death would be a bit of a running joke by now.  
  
But Ginny’s not either one of them, is she?  
  
She thoughtfully shifts her weight, and her response confirms that she understands the absurdity of the situation—  _of his entire life—_ almost as much as he does.  
  
Instead of running away or crying or pretending he hasn’t spoken, Ginny just cocks her head, considering. “ _Yeah_ ,” she agrees. “But where’s the fun in jumper-murder, really? It’s much better to make a big dramatic scene.”  
  
Harry laughs, and he’s rather mortified to learn that it’s a delirious, besotted sort of sound, one he’s never heard himself make before. _Fuck,_  he’s pathetic, but can you blame him? Her eyes are twinkling in the twilight, a little half-smirk is perched on her lips, and despite his best efforts, his eyes keep flitting to the creamy exposed skin above her hip.  
  
But still, she doesn’t say anything— not about how _bloody stupid_ he sounds, laughing like that. Harry also reasons that if Ginny’s noticed that his laugh sounds funny, she probably won’t say anything, either. Which means it’s safe for him to continue the banter.  
  
So he does.  
  
“ _Well_ ,” Harry responds in that same tone of faux-condescension. “Seeing as how I’ve been—what did you say? _Superseded?—_  you’ll have no issues opening and closing doors by yourself, I expect.”  
  
Ginny takes two calculated steps forward, eggs still balanced in her jumper. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty,” she replies warily. “Jumper-murder might be a waste of time, but _trouser_ -murder hasn’t been ruled out.”  
  
Harry laughs and steps back, holding the door open as he does. She gives him a grateful smile and steps over the threshold, and it’s not until the two of them are heading towards the house that he even remembers someone had shouted from the garden in the first place.  
  
As the evening progresses, Harry’s pleased to find that there are plenty of distractions. He talks with Remus and Arthur, makes polite conversation with Fleur, and volunteers to help as much as he can. All the while, though, he bides his time, hoping beyond hope that he’ll get the chance to sneak off to the loo so he can think about how creamy that skin on her waist would look, all tucked up against his...  
  
When he awakens the following morning, he’s immediately forced to confront even more distractions— which is good, because after what happened yesterday, he hadn’t been entirely sure that a single wank would cut it. Thankfully, _My Sweetheart_ and the box of maggots are thrown into his face so quickly that he doesn’t have time to consider too many other options.  
  
He’s still pondering that he’d rather receive maggots over a necklace (if given the option) when Ginny’s voice cuts into his thoughts.  
  
“Harry, you’ve got a maggot in your hair,” she says, sounding remarkably chipper. Then she leans across the table, and for just an instant, he feels her warm, nimble fingers in his hair. And before Harry knows what he’s doing— before he even tries to stop himself— his eyes are drawn straight down the front of her shirt.  
  
Gooseflesh erupts up and down his spine, and (once again) Harry finds himself very pleased, indeed, that tables exist.  
  
He lies in bed that night and tries his hardest not to think about the tiniest slip of her bra that he’d seen at breakfast. Or the way she’d licked her lips as she’d polished off the last of her pudding at dinner. Or the way she’d rolled her eyes at him behind Fleur’s back as she and Bill had violently snogged at the stroke of midnight.

Harry also realizes that he wouldn’t mind opening a box of maggots every single day for the next year if it meant that Ginny would touch him again. Even once.

He sighs and glares up and the ceiling, and vows that this year, he’ll be much less of a wanker.

Because he’s not sure _how_ he’s meant to handle being in Ginny’s life, really, if this is all there will ever be.

* * *

For the first twelve hours she’s home for the Christmas hols, Ginny manages to convince herself that _the look_ she’d shared with Harry on the train had been nothing more than the product of sleep deprivation and pubescent awkwardness.  
  
Ages ago, she might’ve written to her friends immediately and over-analyzed every single aspect of the interaction— if you could call it that. (Had he _meant_ to stare that long? Had he _known_ she was looking? Had he actually been looking at something else?)  
  
But Ginny knows Harry. As such, she knows this is a complete waste of time, one not worthy of looking into. Not in the slightest.  
  
And so she simply _doesn’t._    
  
She goes through the motions of greeting her family and helping her mum. Ginny exchanges hugs and smiles and ignores comments about how _terrible_ she looks, and all the while she tampers her excitement that the twins will be arriving tomorrow...because _sweet Merlin_ , it’s been far too long since she’s gotten to properly stir shit up with them.  
  
That night, she settles into her bed, happier than she can describe that she’s finally away from the guilt ( _Dean_ ), and the weight of her conscience ( _Dean again)_ , and the stress of her upcoming exams (and _also_ Dean). Perhaps that’s why— for the first time in ages— she falls asleep swiftly. Effortlessly. Almost as if she’s been given a potion.  
  
She doesn’t remember how the dream starts, or if there is a beginning at all. It’s one of those dreams where everything makes perfect sense, where all the pieces fall into place with ease.  
  
Of course, she should have realized sooner that it’s just a repeat— albeit an  _edited_ repeat— of exactly what’s just happened the night before.  
  
It’s dark, and she’s in the Room of Requirement. They’re snogging, and everything is going supremely well. Has he always been an expert kisser? She doesn’t know...she can’t remember that far back. But now he’s applying the perfect amount of pressure, letting his fingertips graze _just there,_  and she thinks she’d be content to snog him the rest of the evening if it weren’t for the hardness she can feel pressing against her thigh.  
  
His erection isn’t insistent, though. It’s not rude. It’s not demanding. It’s simply _there—_  and she knows she’s free to ignore it, that he’d _never_ pressure her, that he’d never do anything at all if she weren’t completely enthusiastic about it.  
  
But she doesn’t ignore it. She doesn’t want to. It’s  _there_ , and it feels good, _so good,_  pressed against her, that surely she could just...?  
  
Ginny arches her back and gasps as it slides down into the valley between her legs, and _fuck_ , that feels even better…it’s rubbing against her perfectly, exactly where she’d touch herself (if she could). But she won’t...she likes it better when _he_ does it...  
  
She grabs his hands and interlaces their fingers together. His hands are so big and warm, so much larger than hers, and she knows that when she achingly, _slowly_ brings them to her breasts, he’ll know exactly what to do. She’s fully clothed, of course...but she loves feeling his hands over the thin material of her shirt and the sheer fabric of her bra. His hands shake at first as he cups her, but she doesn’t allow any time for that; there’s no room for embarrassment...only intimacy.  
  
“Ginny,” he breathes into her ear, his voice gruff and deep. “ _Please.”_  
  
And even without being told, she knows what he’s asking; she knows what he needs.  
  
She wraps her legs around his waist, locking her ankles as she goes, and arches her center as far as she can into his. At precisely that moment, he starts thrusting _harder harder harder_ , and she’s getting _closer closer closer_ , and she’s just seconds away, she _knows_ she’s close, when—  
  
“Come for me,” he commands in a voice laced with sex. It’s a sound that’s somehow both familiar and very foreign— like perhaps she’s heard it before, but not with the same words. With that, she finally tilts her head up to stare at him in the face...and that’s when two things happen in very quick succession.  
  
First, she realizes who “he” is— which she really should’ve gathered sooner, she knows, from the sound of his voice, but she’s been so damn worked up she hasn’t been able to.  
  
Because “he” is Harry. Of course he is.  
  
And he’s sexier than she’s ever seen him, which is saying quite a lot. His eyes are green and smoldering and his glasses are slipping off his nose and his black hair is even more tousled and windswept, and she knows he’s fucking _close_.  
  
But even in the midst of her dream, Ginny realizes there’s something _just a mite_ more disturbing than the fact that Harry’s supplanted himself into her subconscious in a scene remarkably similar to one she’d shared with her boyfriend the previous night: As soon as Ginny realizes who “he” is, as soon as she peers into those green eyes that have been darkened with lust, she absolutely _shatters_.

And so does he.  
  
She hears Harry cry out with release as soon as she does, although from which memory she’s constructed that exact noise, she’s not sure; Ginny’s far more focused on the fact that she’s not just feeling the type of orgasm that leaves her feeling merely satiated. It’s not the type that’s mechanical, a biological means of reaching an end.  
  
It’s relentless— the type of release she hasn’t experienced since her earliest days of figuring out how to touch herself (although she doubts she’s ever experienced it quite like this at all), and it’s so powerful, so _insistent_ , that Ginny reaches a state of half-wakefulness the moment it hits her. A hoarse cry leaves her lips as the orgasm thunders through her body, and she’s riding on a peak so intense it’s almost punishing. Electrical pulses spread from her core to her limbs, and she takes deep, shuddering breaths as she realizes that she’s rocking against her own hand.  
  
But _fuck,_ none of that matters, not now, not when she’s still cresting on the most intense orgasm she can remember. It’s so strong she can feel herself contracting and releasing against the back of her hand, even through her pyjamas, even through her sheets and bedding, and all she can do is whimper and moan as she finally, _finally_ finishes.  
  
When the waves of pleasure have subsided a bit, she blinks her eyes open in the darkness. She’s still curled over on her side, but she removes her hand from between her legs, not entirely sure of when she’d put it there. Ginny’s nevertheless thankful she has, though, seeing as how she feels more relaxed and content than she’s been since the Colossal Clusterfuck.  
  
Ginny flops over onto her back as her heart rate returns to normal. _Fuck_ , that had been hot. Is it normal for _dreams_ to be that hot? She’s not sure; it’s not the type of thing you really discuss. _Blokes_ are the ones who are meant to have dreams like that, aren’t they?  
  
She bites her lip and shudders again as the memories (of something that hadn’t even happened) wash over her again.    
  
Had that really been Harry’s voice, all deep and gravelly? Ginny rolls her eyes at herself as soon as the thought crosses her mind, because _of course_ it had been his voice. She’s been used to hearing that for ages, hasn’t she, especially when he gets all controlling and fierce during practice…  
  
Ginny gasps. Without so much as a conscious thought, her hand has drifted beneath her pyjama bottoms; she’s never worn knickers to bed, The pad of her middle finger dances across her clit, and her whole body shakes again. _Bugger._  She’s much randier than she’d realized.  
  
But Ginny pauses for a bit of self-reflection, hand poised just above her clit.  
  
It’s only logical she’s feeling this way, isn’t it? For starters, she hasn’t been... _relieved_...in several weeks— and she’s always been the type who needs to take care of that fairly regularly. Ok, so _that_ bit makes sense. She’s simply been too busy and guilty and _worried_ for her own pleasure to take priority.  
  
But the second part of the issue (the one she hadn’t wanted to analyze as deeply) is the fact that she’s just pretty blatantly dreamed about Harry. And not her boyfriend.  
  
This is far from the first time she’s dreamt about Harry, of course. Before she’d learned how to make herself come, she’d regularly woken up to a frantic pulsing between her legs while she’d imagined his dark, hooded eyes staring into hers. However, Ginny has to admit (if only to herself) that putting _Harry_ into her dream (where Dean had just been in reality) is crossing some sort of line, especially since she’d enjoyed the fantasy far more than she’d cared for the reality.  

But right now? Ginny’s not entirely sure that she cares, not while she’s still coming down from the best... _dream_ ...she’s ever had. Still, she’s never _once_ asked Dean what he fantasizes about. Masturbation hasn’t come up (so to speak) over the course of their relationship, but Ginny doesn’t particularly give a shit as to _who_ Dean thinks about while he does this.

In general, Ginny knows that at least half the blokes at Hogwarts wank to Fleur— and to Veela in general, she’s certain. Besides that, she’s discovered incriminating magazines around the Burrow on more than one occasion, she’s overheard countless conversations about _private time—_ and if that weren’t enough, she’d been an unwitting participant in “wand waving” jokes before she’d even understood what her brothers had been on about.

So Ginny draws a deep breath. And decides that this is  _no different_.

Because it’s pure fantasy, isn’t it? She’d never been overly guilty _before_ when she’d imagined Harry— and this time, it hadn’t exactly been her fault that her brain had merely put Harry in Dean’s place.

Ginny also accepts that Harry Potter isn’t everyone’s particular brand of Veela wank material...but how is she meant to help it if he’s _hers_?  

So she allows her finger to dip beneath her trousers as she arches her back against her pillow, and Ginny decides— right then and there— that for once in her life, she’s not going to overanalyze this.

No…she’s simply going to enjoy herself, to allow herself to be a normal teenager. She’s going to pretend she hasn’t a weird history with darkness and mixed feelings about her boyfriend all floating in the periphery of her mind. All she needs to focus on is how _bloody amazing_ it feels to give herself over to wave after wave of mounting pleasure, like she really should have done months ago.  
  
And when she finishes (again) several moments later, Ginny finds herself faced with a new sort of clarity.  
  
Because the content of her dream has proven something quite crucial: Harry’s _look_ on the train hadn’t been _a look_ at all. Ginny shakes her head against her pillow, flabbergasted with her own behavior. After all, _her mind_ had constructed every single detail of that dream— even details that weren’t there in the first place! It only follows that she’d also imagined a sense of longing hidden in the depths of Harry’s eyes.  
  
And come on, she couldn’t _help_ that she’d always found Harry very attractive. Or that it had been an age since she’d had a proper orgasm. Or that her experience with Dean (which had just happened, after all) had been a bit odd and unsatisfying, to say the least.

It only follows that she’d also imagined a sense of longing hidden in the depths of Harry’s eyes, that— per usual— she’d read further into things than Harry had intended. His _look_ hadn’t meant a damn thing. _Thank Merlin_.

Ginny takes a deep, cleansing breath, pleased to find herself filled with a newfound sense of relief. Yes...everything makes perfect sense now, doesn’t it? She’s simply been overworked and in desperate need of the type of relaxation she hasn’t experienced in far, _far_ too long.  
  
Ginny’s final thought before she drifts into a peaceful sleep is that overthinking hasn’t ever benefited anyone, and that she’d be wise to take a page from Ron’s book and do that a lot less often.  
  
As such, she’s sleeping rather deeply (and peacefully) when she hears her door slam open a few hours later. The rude interruption is quickly followed by a pronouncement that’s surely meant to sound much more thoughtful than it does.

“What rubbish!” A voice declares in evident irritation. “She only looks _halfway_ to being a ginger banshee. I swear, our family has a problem with exaggerations.”  
  
The backhanded compliment has come from one of the twins. Ginny had known as much from the second her door had been opened; almost no one else in her family is foolish enough to barge in and risk waking her. But seeing as how Ginny’s eyes are still closed, seeing as how she’d been _very much asleep_ just a second ago, she can’t quite figure out which one of her brothers had declared her only _halfway_ to being a banshee.

Her money’s on Fred, though.  
  
Ginny groans and sits up as the twins blearily come into focus. As she’d expected, they’ve already marched into her room without a hint of propriety, sprawling about like they own the damn place. Still, Ginny suppress a smile. Despite being rudely woken— and with an _insult_ , no less— she’s missed this.  
  
But she’d never dream of admitting that.  
  
“Well I’ve just been insulted, haven’t I?” she asks, yawning. “Let’s consider how you look right after you’ve been woken and referred to as a _ginger banshee._ ”  
  
Ginny doesn’t know who, exactly, has tipped off the twins about her appearance; everyone in her family is a likely suspect. Harry hadn’t participated (of course), but since her arrival, she’d been privately told (no less than ten times) that she'd looked  _absolutely terrible—_  and by the tenth time, she’d been certain it had become a bit of a game. By supper, an outsider might’ve thought that Ginny was a starving, impoverished homeless child who’d never seen the sun.  
  
But as Ginny watches George pry open her school trunk and begin to rifle around for sweets (as he always does), she decides she’s going to specifically place the blame on Ron. This isn’t completely fair, she knows...but it _does_ make things a bit easier.  
  
George waves his hand dismissively. “We’ve woken you loads of times, though.”  
  
“Yeah,” agrees Fred, perching on the windowsill. “And you only occasionally look like _half_ a ginger banshee.”  
  
Ginny picks up the makeshift quaffle from her bedside table and chucks it at his head. Frustratingly, her brother has always been a bit less impulsive and a bit more forward-thinking than she is; he takes out his wand and lazily deflects the projectile without glancing away from the garden.  
  
She rolls her eyes as the ball drops to the floor. _What a prat_.  
  
“But seriously, Ginny,” George adds, removing a bag of Jelly Slugs she’d gotten from Romilda. He lets the lid of her trunk slam shut and plops himself on top. “You might’ve fooled _Mum_ into believing that you’re just taking OWLs too seriously, but we know you a bit better than that.”  
  
Ginny snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. It’s one of those moments where everyone in the room knows she’s lying— and yet, she’s still going to act like she’s not.

“And why wouldn’t I be worried about OWLs?” she asks, trying her hardest to sound cool and nonchalant. “You two have cornered the market on leaving school early. Unless you’re offering me a well-paid position in your shop, I don’t reckon my marks this year are any of your business.”

Fred pretends to ponder this. “Well, let’s break that down, shall we?” he begins, crossing his arms over his chest. “For starters, you’ve never really cared that much about school before— and don’t deny it. And we’re not saying you’re stupid, obviously. We just happen to know that quidditch is all you really give two shits about. Would any of that change just because you’ve got an _exam_ sometime in the distant future?” He shakes his head. “I’d say the chances of _that,_  Dearest Ginevra, are slim to none.”

Fred settles himself more comfortably on the windowsill, but Ginny knows better than to assume he’s done. It’s part of their bit; it’s simply what they _do_.

She’s proven correct several seconds later when Fred yawns and cups the back of his head with this hands. Ginny reckons that if she knew him even a bit less, she might believe any of that was genuine.  
  
But of course it’s not. Because it’s _Fred_.  
  
“Do you reckon they’re too picky about OWLs, George?” he asks, his eyes never leaving Ginny’s. “When your entire job is looking pretty and flying about on a broom?”  
  
Oh, they’re back on _this_ again, are they? She’s not sure the twins even believe the bullocks that comes out of their own mouths half the time. If there’s something they _are_ excellent at doing, though, it’s getting a reaction. Which she refuses to provide.  
  
“No, Fred,” George agrees, popping a slug into his mouth. “I don’t reckon OWLs matter too much, especially if you’re amongst the _best_ members of the Weasley family who’ve never found use for such things.”  
  
“And funnily enough, George, I once thought our baby sister agreed with us!” Fred summons the bag of slugs from his brother. “But unfortunately, it seems as if our precious little Ginny has become a right swot, much like someone else we know. It’s rather embarrassing, this. We’ve got a reputation to uphold!”

George snatches the bag back, but then pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Where is Hermione, by the way?” he asks, leaning over to glance into the hallway. “Mum wouldn’t have put her anywhere else, not with Fleur coming.”  
  
At the mention of Hermione's name, Ginny makes a face and glances down into her lap; she really would have preferred to think about the Colossal Clusterfuck _after_ she’d eaten.

But an instant later, one of the twins lets out a victorious whoop, and with a sinking sensation, Ginny realizes they’ve found her out. She groans and rubs her palms over her eyes. If anyone can force her to reveal some deep-seated shame, she supposes, _it’s them_.  
  
“Oh- _ho_ , looks like we’ve finally found something we can work with, George,” says Fred, and Ginny can _hear_ rather than _see_ him grinning.  
  
A second later, George mutters something under his breath and closes and locks her door. Fred gives him a pointed look, but he just shrugs. “Do you want to hear the full scope of this shit or not?”  
  
Ginny glares at the two of them. “Can I at least use the loo first? I haven’t really gotten the chance since—”  
  
“Nice try,” says Fred smoothly, reaching for another sweet. “And don’t try to wriggle out of this with some excuse about your monthly.”  
  
George snorts. “That might work on every _other_ male family members, but you should know by now it doesn’t work on us.” He pops a slug into his mouth. “Trust us when we say we’ve dealt with worse in our experiments alone.”  
  
Ginny narrows her eyes, but mostly because she _had_ been about to use that, actually—  
  
“So what’s the problem?” Fred blurts, cutting into her contemplations. “Did you and Hermione have a falling out? Is _that_ why you arrived looking like you were on death’s door?”

“You look fine to me, though,” George retorts, a bit irked. “Honestly, based on the descriptions, we were expecting a lot worse. Unless everything that’s ever plagued you mysteriously vanished while you were in bed.”

 _Oh_. Ginny feels her face flushing as she stares at the bedspread. For once, she’s happy that her brothers wouldn’t _dream_ of thinking about her the same way they’d thought about themselves at age 15. George would be horrified, really, if he knew how close he’d gotten to the truth...

And it’s about then that Ginny realizes that telling the twins about the situation with Hermione is _much_ less uncomfortable than admitting why she miraculously looks so much better. She also knows that she needs to get this the hell over with before they start asking more questions.  
  
So Ginny clears her throat and picks at the bedspread. “Hermione and I didn’t _exactly_ have a falling out, no.”  
  
“Didn’t _exactly_?” George echoes, leaning closer. “I’m not hearing an outright _no_. Are you, Fred?”  
  
“Can’t say I am, George. Can’t say I am. Perhaps we should present a variety of options and see which one sticks.”  
  
“Right-o. Let’s begin!” George shifts his weight on the closed lid of her trunk and studies her face. “Well, based on the fact that you’re living in the hormone capital of Wizarding Britain, I’m going to take a wild guess that it’s somehow related to _a boy._ ”  
  
Ginny gives him a scathing look, but she knows her brother’s nonetheless gotten what he’d wanted.  
  
“Well, Bob’s your uncle, George,” Fred says in wonderment. “Guess I’d better pay up. I didn’t have money on _that_ until next year, at the earliest—”  
  
“—they aren’t together,” Ginny says quickly, swallowing. And then, more softly: “Ron and _Hermione_ aren’t together.”  
  
As she’d hoped, the twins pick up on her inflection.  
  
George lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That _does_ explain a lot.”  
  
“And I might’ve...” Ginny clears her throat and folds her hands. It’s not lost on her that this is the first time she’s articulated any of this aloud. It’s _also_ not lost on her that she needs to tread extremely carefully; she’s rather certain she’d never live it down if she announced what had lead to this unfortunate chain of events.  
  
“I might’ve... _accidentally_ ...given Ron some information about Hermione that spurred him into snogging Lavender Brown.”  
  
The words leave her in a rush, and her admission is followed by a moment of deafening silence. For one painful moment, Ginny wonders if her impulsivity has been so extreme that even _Fred and George_ will shun her.  
  
But then the twins burst into laughter in perfect unison. And just like that, her fears vanish.  
  
Their laughter grows and grows until both of them are clutching at their sides and wiping tears away from their eyes. Ginny doesn’t see what’s so funny about this bloody situation, really, but as they wheeze and roll around on the ground— _actually roll around on the ground—_  Ginny realizes she’s profoundly misunderstood something along the way.  
  
Once the chuckles (which were _quite_ theatrical and unnecessary, Ginny thinks) have tapered off, Fred cocks his head and stares at her. “And you actually felt _bad_ about that?”  
  
“ _Merlin,_ ” George cuts in, shaking his head, “that sensitive poncy-arse artist boyfriend of yours must be rubbing off a bit.”  
  
Ginny shudders and thinks that if she never heard that phrase in relation to Dean again, that would be fine with her. Luckily the twins are still collecting themselves and wiping tears from their eyes; they’ve either missed her reaction or they’re going an excellent job of pretending they have.  
  
One never really knows, with those two.  
  
“We assume you’re still with that wanker, by the way,” says Fred, rising to his feet.  
  
“Yeah,” George chortles back. “You haven’t _denied_ it. You were more than willing to announce you’d ditched that Corner fellow.”  
  
They keep their tones light and casual, but Ginny doesn’t miss the cool burst of overprotectiveness flaring behind their guarded expressions. She rolls her eyes. _This_ is where she draws the bloody line; if there’s one thing she knows better than to do, it’s to discuss romance with her brothers.  
  
“But seriously,” says Fred, nicking another sweet. “Ron’s never needed an excuse to act like a total knob head.”

“He’d have gotten there with or without you, Ginny,” George affirms, stepping closer to her bed. “You might’ve given him a shove in the right direction, but you didn’t make him an insecure wanker in the first place.” And then, with a chuckle and a glance out the window— “Oh look! A gnome’s wearing Mum’s knickers!”  
  
Fred chortles and rushes over to join him. The two of them cackle and stare down into the garden, and Ginny gazes absentmindedly at their backs. It’s like a warm rush has enveloped her entire body, spreading from her head down to her toes. It’s like everything from the past two months has disappeared in a golden wave of clarity.  
  
Because the twins are _right_ , aren’t they? Of course they are. Ginny shakes her head. She’d been the impetus— at best. She’d provided a push, but she hadn’t walked Ron to the ledge. It didn’t mean she’d been ridiculous in feeling guilty for giving him that push, of course...but wallowing like she had been hadn’t helped anyone. Least all of herself.  
  
Ginny sighs and leans back in her bed. The twins are still pretending to stare at the gnome, but she reckons they’re actually giving her a bit of time. They’re quite emotionally observant when they want to be. Ginny knows she’ll miss Hermione over the Christmas hols, but for the first time, she sees her friend’s absence as a blessing. Perhaps the distance will help her brother realize what a gigantic _numpty_ he’s been.  
  
The twins keep a close eye on her as the day progresses, which is fine with Ginny. She’s happier being further from Ron, and she has a feeling that Fred and George are providing a bit of a buffer so that Mum has less drama to deal with.  
  
It’s a good thing they stay so close, too, because Fleur soon blusters into their home, making sweeping judgments as she goes, and Ginny thinks she’d probably lose her mind completely if given the chance.  
  
It’s actually not until she’s lugged Fleur’s (rather ridiculous) amount of baggage up the stairs, though, that she realizes something very important: She’d had a dream about Harry the night before. One in which she’d actually _cried out._  One which would be _very obvious_ if anyone else were to overhear again. Ginny shakes her head and leaves the room before Phlegm can assign her any additional tasks, but she finds the solution to be simple enough: She will simply _not allow_ herself not to have one of those dreams again.

Which means avoiding Harry at all costs. She doesn’t want to expose herself to any _triggers_ , does she? Not when _he’s_ her brand of Veela. As pathetic as that sounds.  
  
So when she sits at the dinner table that evening, Ginny’s almost glad that Fleur is there. She provides the _perfect_ distraction, really, with her whinging about English food and complaining about the size of the Burrow and making veiled comments about how wedding preparations will go in _a space this size_. As such, Ginny’s pleased that her blood is boiling by the time pudding is served.

Good...she’s _angry_. She’s _always_ understood how to be angry.

As such, when Ginny falls asleep that night, she knows she’s far too furious at her (snoring) roommate for thoughts of anything (or any _one)_  else to cross her mind. She allows for a bit of self-congratulations as she finally drifts off. _As long as you can avoid him_ , she reassures herself. _There won’t be a problem_.

But Ginny really should’ve known better than to assume anything involving Harry Potter would ever go according to plan.

Her feeble attempts at _not_ thinking about him— of avoiding Harry in general— all come crashing down on Christmas Eve. This day is also significant because it marks the first and only time in Ginny’s life that she becomes envious of yard work.  

Harry, Ron, Fred, and George head outside in early afternoon, and the four of them look fairly content for people who are about to pull up carrots. Ginny stares at them as they walk outside and wishes she’d been given a similar assignment; she thinks she’d be content to pull up carrots, too, if she’d been given the choice between _that_ and spending all day inside with her mum and Phlegm.

Naturally, Mum’s keeping her close so she won’t have to deal with Fleur alone. That much is painfully obvious, even more so than it had been this summer. At least this summer, though, Ginny had been able to exchange _looks_ with Hermione and roll her eyes with Harry and generally deride the entire situation. And as much as Ginny loves her mother, she has to admit that the woman has never been great at subtlety. Still, it’s a moot point; Molly would sooner die than openly mock a guest under her roof, even if that guest happens to be _Phlegm_.

Ginny doesn’t feel up to testing that theory, however...not while her mother is holding a meat cleaver and muttering under her breath. Fleur’s spent the last half hour giving the two of them (completely unsolicited) French lessons from her perch in the corner of the kitchen, and she hasn’t stopped _giggling_ since she’s started. Ginny’s legitimately starting to ponder the circumstances in which murder might qualify as self-defense when her mother makes an absent-minded comment about needing more eggs.

Ginny responds _enthusiastically_ to the suggestion— so enthusiastically that she bangs her knee on the table in her haste. She immediately abandons the pile of crumbs she’s been meticulously separating for bread sauce (a preparation which could _surely_ be accomplished much sooner with magic), and she leaves so quickly that she doesn’t even realize she’s forgotten a basket until she’s staring at the chickens in the hutch.

 _Bugger_. Ginny kicks at the mulch. Oh well. She’ll have to use the hem of her jumper, then— and move _very_ slowly and carefully. The only thing worse than being inside with her mother ( _and Fleur)_  today would be being inside with her mother (and Fleur) _and_ being the person responsible for ruining Christmas dinner.  
  
So with great effort, Ginny sighs and bends over to collect some eggs in her jumper. Then she stands up, managing to keep all of the eggs in place and unbroken, and reckons that if she moves slowly, _carefully,_  just _inching_ her way inside, she’ll be—  
  
_You’re. Being. Watched._  
  
She immediately stiffens as the words echo in her head. That familiar chill races up her spine, the one she’d first experienced so many years ago, the one that’s disturbing and expected at the same time. It’s a feeling so pervasive and unnerving that it forces Ginny to recognize two things: One, that she’s being watched. And two, that _Harry_ is watching her.  
  
She doesn’t know _how_ she knows the second one, exactly...but she does. It’s a simple fact, one she makes no effort to deny. The sky is blue. England is damp. Malfoy is an arse. _And Harry is watching her._  
  
She’s debating saying something about it when one of the twins (from this far away, she can’t tell which) lets out an angry shout from the direction of the garden. On instinct, she whips around towards the direction of the noise...and that’s when she finally sees him.  
  
Harry’s standing there in a white shirt looking rather sweaty. Dirt is smeared across his face, his glasses are askew, and perhaps if Ginny were his mother, she’d ask if he’s not a bit cold, standing out here in December without a jumper.  
  
But as it is, she’s _not_ his mother, mostly because she thinks he looks right sexy. He looks almost like he does after quidditch practice (but amplified by a million) and Ginny’s impressed she manages to refrain from commenting on that, especially given her... _dreams_ , of late.  
  
Fortunately, she plays it off, even when Harry looks _fucking_ adorable and actually offers to help her, even though she hasn’t really been assigned a task in the first place. Not like _he_ has.

And just like that, the two of them proceed to have the type of conversation she’d spent her first three years at Hogwarts fantasizing about. They banter easily. They joke. They understand each other. They tread boundaries.

It’s such a lovely, _playful_ exchange, actually, that Ginny doesn’t even think how about her exposed midriff until she catches Harry’s eyes flickering in that direction, and honestly, she’s not quite sure what to do with that. She certainly hadn’t intended to show her stomach, even though she knows Harry’s seen far more of her than this. They’d spent days lounging about in the sun, just meters from where they’re standing now, and for all intents and purposes, she hadn’t been wearing much more than a bra and knickers.

Somehow, though, this time is different.

There’s something hanging in the air between them that feels _charged_ ...it’s interspersed with banter and soft smiles, but it’s nonetheless _there—_ and it’s almost something tangible, this feeling, like Ginny could reach out and grab it and feel it pulsing in her hand.

She feels this sensation even more strongly when Harry makes a comment about Voldemort’s thwarted attempts at murder, and she wonders if Harry feels it, too.

He gets a funny look in his eyes the second the words leave his mouth, and Ginny knows he thinks he’s said something wrong. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, but Ginny’s not exactly sure how to convey this. She can’t rush up to him and smother him in a hug. She can’t cradle him against her chest ( _oh God_ ) and whisper that it’ll _all be ok_. She can’t thread her hands through his thick hair and press kisses across his jaw and—

 _Fuck_. What is it about this boy that always reduces her a mess of hormones and intrusive thoughts?

“ _Yeah_ ,” she says a bit too loudly, mostly to prevent herself from doing anything else. And to keep talking, she adds: “But where’s the fun in jumper-murder, really? It’s much better to make a big dramatic scene.”

She’s sure it’s the stupidest thing she’s ever said, but Harry _laughs_. To make matters worse, it’s a laugh she hasn’t heard before— it’s like a giggle that starts in his stomach and grows as it comes up his throat, and now he’s just standing there _grinning at her,_ and fuck, she really hopes he does something, because she’s not quite sure what she’s meant to do with all of these _things_ she’s feeling, and—

“ _Well_ ,” Harry says, and she’s pleased he’s keeping it up; she’s not quite sure her faculties are there yet. “Seeing as how I’ve been— what did you say? _Superseded?—_  you’ll have no issues opening and closing doors by yourself, I expect.”

Fortunately, something in his words reminds Ginny of where she is. Of why she’s there. Of what she’s bloody _doing_. And she’s rather proud of herself, honestly, that she’s able to finish the conversation without looking like a blithering idiot. Ginny also manages to make it inside— without dropping the eggs!— before she allows herself to think about how his arm had rippled when he’d pried open the door for her or about how he’d smiled so widely that his glasses had gotten pushed further up his nose.

Whether fortunately or unfortunately (Ginny still can’t decide) these thoughts about Harry hit her all at once the second she has a bit of downtime. She begins the fairly routine task of making decorative paper chains— the most useless _indoor chore_ , the one she’s been assigned for as long as she can remember. As a little girl, she’d found this task frustrating and condescending, one not worthy of her time, especially since her brothers had typically gotten to play quidditch when _their_ chores were done.

Now, though, she rather enjoys the tedium and monotony. Or at least she has for the past several years. There’s normally something therapeutic in allowing her mind to remain blissfully blank as one piece of paper slips over another after another after another.

On this particular Christmas, though, nothing goes according to plan— which is why Ginny really should’ve known better than to assume it would, in the first place.

Thus, Ginny sits down in the living room in front of pieces of paper, just as she always has. She begins gathering the strips in her fingers, just as she always has. She begins lacing them on top of each other, just as she always has. But in the midst of this— just when she normally begins thinking about _nothing—_ she starts thinking about _Harry_.

She gathers a strip of paper in her right hand, but all she sees his lopsided grin as he’d opened the door for her. She links one circular chain over the other, but all she hears is the way he’d laughed at her stupid joke. She seals one chain and moves to the next, but all she can smell is sweat and mulch and _Harry_. She feels him creeping into her senses, feels him crawling into every crevice of her mind. As she makes _more and more_ chains and begins to draw ragged, uneven breaths, Ginny feels his presence so strongly that she briefly wonders if he’s actually standing behind her.

She swallows as her hands continue working. Even if he _is_ there (and she reckons he’s not, which makes the whole situation a bit more ridiculous), Ginny’s not going to turn around on the off-chance she sees anything dark and insistent reflected in his eyes…because she can’t bear to indulge herself in that bizarre little fantasy. Not now.

She shifts uncomfortably against the pulsing between her legs and whimpers a bit as she slides against the seam of her jeans. But no...there’s no time for this, is there? She can’t exactly escape up to her room for a bit of privacy— mostly because privacy doesn’t exactly exist right now. Besides all that, she’s a bit unsure of what she might do if she actually sees Harry on her way upstairs; right now, she’s so damn _worked up_ that she doesn’t quite trust herself.

So Ginny chooses the safest option...and just makes chain after chain after chain. She tries thinking about Fleur, she tries thinking about Dean, she tries thinking about her OWLs, but none of that even makes a dent in the scenes dancing through her mind…

Some time later (and Ginny honestly couldn’t tell you how long), a voice interrupts the series of lurid reveries she’s permitting to traipse across her conscience.

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Ginny! You’re making us all look bad!”

She jumps at the noise as the chain falls from her hands. Her eyes dart up to inspect the source of the interruption, although she hardly needs to confirm what she already knows: it’s Fred.

Naturally, the twins are completely oblivious to what they’ve walked in on— and Ginny is thankful (yet again) that she’s a girl; as such, there’s not much for them to see that might _betray_ her present state. She clears her throat and composes herself as the living room comes back into focus. Fred’s just staring at her in bafflement as George critically inspects a paper chain that’s spread to the sofa, and Ginny feels sure in the knowledge that at least they have _no_ bloody idea what she’s just been imagining...

“I’m not kidding,” Fred repeats, shaking his head. “Mum’s definitely going to expect us to do more now that you’ve upped the ante.”

Ginny rolls her eyes and stands, massaging a crick in her neck, and it’s only then that she takes a glance around the living room...and sees the full scope.  
  
Oh. She swallows.  
  
They weren’t kidding, were they? She has gone a bit mad in her mission. There are paper chains everywhere, covering nearly every surface, draped over tables and chairs alike.

“It’s pretty impressive that you’ve managed to do this without magic,” George says, shoving aside the chain and sitting down on the couch cushion. “A total waste of time, of course— but an _impressive_ waste of time.”  

“ _Actually_ ,” Fred adds thoughtfully, “we could say we’ve helped with Doubling Charms, couldn’t we? That might get Mum off our—“

“Nice try.” Ginny crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll take credit where it’s due, thanks.”

George rolls his eyes. “Come off it. Mum isn’t going to be _nearly_ as impressed as you think. We all know you’ve only done this to avoid Fleur.”

Yes—  _Fleur_! What a brilliant excuse! Ginny silently thanks her brother for the unexpected (albeit completely inaccurate) foothold. But she’s not going to share that, not when the two of them look so thoroughly convinced that _Phlegm_ had anything at all to do with the bloody paper chain explosion...

So Ginny just shrugs and thoughtfully inspects her nail beds. “I think I’ll leave that for _Mum_ to decide, thanks. I can’t exactly help it if the youngest member of the family got the most brains.”

Fred snorts. “Those are pretty big words coming from the person who spent _months_ blaming herself for Ron’s snogging habits.”

The haughty smirk slides off her face as the two of them erupt in cackles. _Bloody wankers_.

Still, Ginny’s satisfied that the Phlegm excuse has worked. As dinner progresses, Fred and George remain close by, never straying far. The three of them enjoy a reasonably entertaining game of Exploding Snap, talk loudly over Fleur’s thinly-obscured insults, and generally do their utmost to pretend that a vaguely disliked member of their family hasn’t vanished just as someone who is _greatly_ disliked has insisted upon inserting herself.

When Ginny finally heads to the shower at the conclusion of the long, stressful, _confusing_ day, she pushes aside any lingering feelings of irritation as she undresses and steps beneath the warm spray. At this point, she knows that her body has given her very few options. The paper chains (which are still covering nearly every surface of the living room) serve as a sort of bizarre monument to her pent-up _frustration_.

Simply put, Ginny knows that she needs to touch herself if she doesn’t want her future sister-in-law to bear witness to an extremely embarrassing dream— one which she _knows_ she won’t be able to escape.

So Ginny begins doing what she’s wanted to do all day, even though she detests doing this in the shower. But desperate times call for desperate measures.  

She crouches down as delicately as she can, her back facing the taps, and even though she’s barely started, she knows it won’t take long. She drives herself over the edge several minutes later as she imagines Harry fucking her over the chicken coop. As Fantasy Harry spills himself inside of her, she tries her hardest not to ponder if this is a normal thing to wank about.  
  
She leaves the loo with a newfound sense of calm, one quite similar to how she’d felt after the twins had chatted with her a few days ago. She feels sated. Relaxed. Even Phlegm’s snores (from Ginny’s bed, no less) don’t bother her. She peels back the covers from the camp bed and settles down beneath, quite pleased that she’s taken things into her own hands. So to speak. At least this way, she won’t make a complete fool of herself.  
  
It’s perhaps unsurprising that Ginny’s particularly cheerful when she arrives at the table on Christmas morning.  
  
In general, things are looking much better than they had several days ago. Her shower last night had been...satisfying; afterward, she’d been so tired she’d actually slept— without a rude dream; she’s about to see the last of Phlegm for a long, long time; Dean hadn’t sent her anything for Christmas at all, which is for the best, since she hadn’t sent him anything, either.  
  
So perhaps each of these things contributes to her jocular mood as she places herself across from Harry. She hasn’t sat there on purpose— not really. But he’s just sitting there looking so pensive and stoic and lost in a way that only Harry can, and it’s almost like her feet have traveled to the seat directly across from his without her permission. She has to admit he’s a bit hard to resist when his jaw is set in thoughtful preponderance, like he’s weighing a very heavy decision.  
  
...And all of this is hilarious, of course, because he’s got a maggot in his hair.  
  
So without a second thought, she reaches over and plucks it out. “Harry, you’ve got a maggot in your hair,” she says through a giggle.  
  
But as her fingers graze across his hair, Harry glances up at her through his glasses...and for just one moment, their eyes meet...  
  
And that, Ginny reckons, is when everything falls to complete shit.  
  
She sucks in an involuntary breath, one that freezes her chest on its way down, and tries her hardest to deny what’s right in fucking front of her.  
  
But no...it’s no use. _It’s no bloody use_. Ginny now knows (for certain) that nothing she’s convinced herself of over the last few days matters. Not even a little. Not at all.  
  
Because Harry’s eyes aren’t curious or gentle or soft or imploring. They aren’t analytical. They aren’t calculating. And-- perhaps most importantly-- his eyes aren’t filled with the same sort of wide-eyed, dazed look she’d seen after Fleur had stormed into his bedroom this summer.  
  
No...Harry’s eyes are _burning_. And they are burning _for her._  
  
Ginny could compare them to how they’d looked on the train, but that would be like comparing a drizzle to a downpour. And she thinks she’d be able to try just a little harder to pretend none of this had happened— really, she would— if his eyes hadn’t immediately darted down her shirt. _And then gotten even darker_.  
  
No. _No no no no no._  This is _not_ happening. Not _now._  Not four years too late...  
  
Ginny swallows and tries her hardest to suppress the feelings welling up in her chest. She digs her nails into her thighs, she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she pleads to every deity that she’s somehow constructed this, too.    
  
And in the midst of doing all this— of getting her breathing back under control, of regaining some semblance of composure— she studies Harry a bit more. He’s focused on breakfast now, acting for all the world like he’s just one of her brothers sitting at the table.  
  
Yes. He’s put up a good front, hasn’t he? She shakes her head. What a _wanker_. She doesn’t know _how_ long Harry’s kept that a secret— the fact that he’s attracted to her— but she also has a weird, dreamy sort of feeling that at some point, _she’ll understand_.

It’s a sensation that makes her feel a bit like Luna, but Ginny knows better than to doubt it; her intuition is rarely wrong, although it does confuse her that she has no idea what she’s meant to _understand_ in the first place.

Still, seeing as how Harry seems perfectly content to just sit there, seeing as how he seems like nothing is amiss, Ginny knows it would be plausible for her to deny what’s just happened. It would be feasible, even _reasonable_ , for her to pretend that Harry hadn’t just sent her a look filled with more lust and longing than she’d ever seen splashed across his face before.

But in that instant, she also realizes something that changes the progression of the rest of the year: _She doesn’t want to do any of that_.

A shiver races up her spine.  
  
...oh, bloody hell, what has she done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. I know some of this might have angered the Ron Weasley Defense Squad... but please know that I'm an ardent Ron supporter. I *adore* that dude. I also firmly believe that what happened in HBP wasn't anyone's fault, and that Ron WAS a "free agent." Still, you can't deny that Ron was completely insecure (through limited fault of his own) during the events in HBP, and that he only really figured out the full scope of his feelings for Hermione after he left in DH. 
> 
> Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.


	6. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks SO MUCH to everyone who helped me with this chapter... it's a loooooong time coming, I know! :) However, I couldn't have done any of it without help from some amazing people, so I need to thank them, first. 
> 
> Thanks to OOC for help with typos and the giggles over sad wanking.  
> Thanks to Fitz for all the "bullocks."  
> Thanks so Goods for helping me with overall structure/ideas/maintaining true to their relationship. Your paragraphs/analyses are insightful, as always!  
> Thanks to Hills for being my confidant and friend and still managing to provide the *most* spot-on characterization concrit, all while kicking me if I need to get working again!
> 
> You guys are awesome, thank you so much! <3
> 
> Oh, and thanks to BrightlyBound, who 100% inspired this story with her own publication of Twenty-Two Days. If you haven't read that, you should; it's absolutely the ultimate HBP fic, and I don't say that lightly, because HBP fics are my favorite. (I also feel less weird about crediting her now that we've talked! :D)
> 
> Please read and review!

Each quidditch practice places Harry in limbo between misery and joy.

The joy comes from seeing Ginny in any capacity at all, because he doesn’t get to do it much. They’re in separate years, they’ve separate timetables, and even if their schedules had been in better alignment, Ginny possesses the sort of graceful popularity that’s been earned — not stolen or unwillingly received.

As such, she’s always around loads of people, and to Harry, that makes total sense. She’s beautiful. She’s effervescent. She brims with light and laughter. It’s no wonder she’s caught the attention of most people at Hogwarts, boys and girls alike. He’s just the wanker who’d been too thick to figure that out until it was far, far too late.

Since October, Harry’s learned quite a lot about her. He knows what she eats for breakfast and how she takes her tea. At one point he’d thought she didn’t eat lunch at all, but then he’d figured out she sits in a different place each day. Ginny doesn’t necessarily sit with the same people, either — and sometimes she doesn’t even sit with Dean. Harry finds that little quirk to be nothing short of brilliant, especially on days when Ron and Hermione have both rebuffed him for the umpteenth time. He often wishes he possessed the effortless fluidity that might allow him to blend elsewhere, too.

Over the past few months, Harry’s also realized that Ginny really, _genuinely_ loves quidditch, which (like everything else) he knows he should have noticed before. He spends most of practice watching her play as discreetly as he can — which is harder than it looks, given he’s on a broom himself. And in full view of her boyfriend.

 _And_ her brother.

 _And_ the rest of the team.

But Merlin, can you blame him? While she’s up there, she’s in her bloody element — as Ginny Weasley as Ginny Weasley _gets!_ As someone who quite fancies all that Ginny Weasley has to offer, Harry can’t stop himself from staring.

Thus, observing her during practices has led Harry to the sad conclusion that he now knows her better than he ever has — but this is a bit heartbreaking, because A) he’s certain she has no idea, and B) he still doesn’t know her as well as he’d like.

Nevertheless, Harry’s collected a weird mental catalog of Ginny’s facial expressions by now — and if intentionally or not, this coincides with him starting to give fuck-all about quidditch in general. Harry couldn’t tell you how many goals Ron saved last practice, but he’s firmly aware of what color trousers Ginny had worn (gray… and _tight_ ) and what she’d looked like when she’d gotten frustrated with Coote (her lip had curled into a half-pout as she’d tossed her plait to the side). Frustrated Ginny isn’t Harry’s favorite, although it’s cute in its own way; it reminds him of the little girl who’d stuck her elbow in a butter dish.

Still, Harry’s favorite is _determined_ Ginny… because she’s really fucking adorable when she’s determined. (And yes, he knows it’s creepy that he has a favorite, but he considers this transgression relatively minor — especially compared to the wanking, which hasn’t abated in the slightest, and in fact has gotten quite a lot sadder.)

When Ginny’s determined, she gets a fierce glint behind her eyes. _Determined_ Ginny chases the quaffle with stubborn persistence, her cheeks all rosy and whipped from the wind. She looks so victorious when she scores that Harry almost lets her win, just to watch that glow of pride sweep across her face.

 _Almost_.

But then there’s the other side of the coin: Harry also hates quidditch, because it means he has to see Ginny interact with Dean. Harry’s now convinced that any lack of enthusiasm he’d ever inferred from their post-hols reunion was wishful thinking. This hurts more than he’d like to admit.

For reasons Harry doesn’t fully understand, Dumbledore has tasked him with procuring Slughorn’s memory. In years past, this might’ve been something he, Ron, and Hermione could have a laugh about while they plotted and researched together. Now, though, any chance of group collaboration is out of the question — which is perhaps why Harry feels so isolated as the new year trudges on.

It’s not until mid-January that Harry makes the worst realization of all: Communicating with Ginny is easier than communicating with nearly everyone else.

This discovery comes (in part) because of how uncomfortable things are with Ron and Hermione. Still, Harry knows people have other priorities. He tries his hardest to put things in perspective, to accept that he’s usually not listened to or cared about first.

With Ginny, though, it’s not like that.

It’s pathetic, but when he’s being dismissed by Hermione or brushed off by Ron, Harry can’t help but replay the various conversations they’ve had over the past few months. Even brief, passing chats with Ginny are smooth. Uncomplicated. _Engaging_.

This contrast — a firm line in the sand separating Ginny and everyone else — is especially noticeable when Harry spends all of his quidditch practice barking things like, “Follow the quaffle!” and bellowing at Jimmy to pay attention and trying to lift Ron’s spirits as much as he can. With _others_ , Harry has to be explicit in his requests. He roars until he’s blue in the face. He often feels like his teammates are toddlers, not teenagers. But with Ginny, things are different.

Sometimes they don’t even need to speak. Sometimes all it takes is a single glance, a cock of his head, a jerk of his shoulder, and she _understands_.

If she’s flying too high, he catches her eye and she descends. If she’s hovering too close to the goal, he shakes his head once, and she moves. And it goes both ways; Harry’s known to be a little myopic in his focus on the snitch, but if she calls his name, he gets that, too: _Pay attention. There’s more to the game than one glittering gold prize at the end._

That, right there, is why every single practice is a mixture of pain and pleasure.

He doesn’t have to wonder how amazing it would be to communicate with her beyond quidditch and everyday pleasantries — because he’s confident it would be brilliant. Even when communication is difficult with everyone else on the team, things with Ginny are fluid. They banter with grace. He never has to wonder where he stands with her — and he reckons she doesn’t have to wonder where she stands with him, either.

Which is why Harry gets depressed when he considers what might happen if they actually _were_ dating.

And here is where the other part of his misery comes into play… because Harry’s not an idiot.  

He knows the mere concept of dating Ginny Weasley is the longest of long shots. Even if she didn’t have a boyfriend (which she does), he can’t bring himself to pretend that she shares his feelings. After all, Harry knows better than anyone that Ginny’s not the type to tolerate any semblance of betrayal or disloyalty. If she _had_ feelings for him (which she doesn’t), she wouldn’t be able to remain in a relationship with Dean. Or anyone.

But those two _are_ in a relationship, aren’t they? The monster in Harry’s chest brays in mourning as he watches Ginny and Dean giggle, hand-in-hand, on their trek down to the quidditch pitch one evening in early February. They stop a few paces away from Harry, Dean’s hands planted on Ginny’s shoulders, her back facing him. Harry knows he’s being ridiculous in this conviction — but he can’t help but feel that all of this is intentional, yet another way the universe is punishing him for being too thick to notice her before.

He watches through steadily building rage as Dean brushes snow from Ginny’s shoulder, as his hand lingers just there. Then (as if given permission to do so), Dean’s fingertips twirl themselves around the soft red tendrils gathered in a plait near her neck.

Harry’s fist clenches at his side. He’s seized with the irrational desire to intervene, to demand that Dean keep his bloody hands to himself — but Dean’s far too busy fixing Ginny with the most lopsided, besotted, _sickening_ grin Harry’s ever had the misfortune of seeing on anyone’s face in his life, Bill and Fleur included.

And right then and there, something inside of him snaps: The monster takes control. Harry can’t fucking stand it anymore — in part because the sight of Dean touching her hair is making his stomach roil and pitch, and in part because he _has_ been toying asking if Slughorn has summoned Ginny for another party. (And yes, he’s already asked Hermione… but he’s nonetheless convinced himself he needs to ask Ginny, too. Purely for research.)

The words spring from his lips before Harry acknowledges what he’s saying.

“Ginny. I need to speak to you after practice.”

Her back stiffens as shame floods Harry’s face. _Shit_ ; that’s come out much harsher than he’d intended. Instead of a polite social request, it sounds like he’s barked an order, made a demand.

Clearly, Ginny agrees.

She turns on the spot, arms crossed over her chest. Harry ignores the way Dean takes a protective step forward as she does, his whole body towering over hers.

Then Ginny tilts her face up to meet his, and Harry’s breath freezes in his throat. The second their eyes meet, something shifts in the air between them — and even though the whole team is gathered, even though her boyfriend is _right there_ , Harry hopes to Merlin he’s not the only one who feels it. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know what _it_ is — not really. But as a blush spreads to Ginny’s cheeks, as her brown eyes slowly blink back at him, he knows his silent wish has been answered: She feels it, too.

It’s the same full-body prickling he’d experienced at the Burrow when she’d plucked a maggot from his hair. It’s the same electrical current that had coursed through him when she’d stared at him on the train all those months ago. Just like always, it cuts up his spine like a blade of ice — a sudden awareness that’s akin to being dipped in a glowing pool of warm water.

Then Ginny arches an eyebrow… and though she hasn’t said a single word, Harry’s struck with exactly what she’s thinking: _Yes. But we’re in front of everyone._

And just like that, the moment shatters as if it’s never been.

Harry suppresses a shudder as he rips his head away. The fog clears from his brain with mortifying legerity — and it’s only then Harry realizes he’s been standing in front of the whole team like a complete numpty.

He also should’ve waited, he realizes, to ask her privately.

_Because she’s got a fucking boyfriend._

Harry turns to face the team, a half-formed, hastily prepared pep talk falling from his lips. He knows he needs to be captain now, to be a _leader_ … but every time his eyes drift close to Ginny, the monster in his chest emits wounded croaks that make it difficult for him to focus on anything as banal as quidditch plays.

If the others notice his uncharacteristic lack of pre-practice quidditch advice, they say nothing, for which Harry’s rather grateful. His body is still humming with whatever the hell that _look_ had been, although the moment Ginny kicks off from the ground, he’s convinced himself it was a one-sided figment of his imagination.

Ginny maneuvers with ease, tossing the quaffle as effortlessly as always. Harry’s the one who’s a shaking, distracted bundle of nerves. He almost falls off his broom twice before Demelza asks him if he’s feeling ok, which only solidifies that he’s invented the whole thing. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Harry soon accepts the whole practice is a wash, a total waste of time. He has few qualms about telling them to pack it in early; he can’t even bring himself to care they have a game in a little over a month.

The others head towards the locker rooms, but Ginny and Dean both take their time. Ginny picks up her broom and takes a hesitant step in Harry’s direction, her arms wrapped around her middle. Harry feels another pang of guilt; it’s bloody cold, and he’s making her stand out here even longer. Naturally, Harry feels nothing of this guilt for Dean, who lingers and attempts to catch Ginny’s eye.

It’s clear what Dean’s doing: He’s verifying that his girlfriend is ok with this. That she’s ok remaining with _him_.  

For some reason, this forces a renewed spike of anger deep in Harry’s chest as his fist clenches at his side again. Who the _hell_ does Dean think he is? Can’t Ginny make her own choices?

To Harry’s relief, Ginny doesn’t give Dean what he wants.

She fixes him with a nod, the tip of her plait swaying on her jumper, and Dean gives up. But not willingly.

Harry doesn’t miss the way his eyes narrow as he turns on the spot — and he certainly doesn’t miss the final, plaintive look that Dean shoots over his shoulder, his broom bouncing as he walks. A smile curls Harry’s lips, the monster in his chest humming with renewed vitality.

Harry knows he has no right to feel victorious. But sometimes, he can’t bloody help it.

Then, it’s just the two of them… and Harry’s not sure what to do with that, either; as soon as he forms a coherent thought, Ginny’s pink tongue darts out to lick her lips, and he’s left blinking at her mouth like a fish out of water.

Thankfully, she takes pity on him.

“Was uh…” Ginny clears her throat. “Were you concerned about my playing? Or something else?” she asks, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

_What?!_

“No!” Harry rushes to clarify, eyes widening. “No, that’s — you’re brilliant!”

Ginny arches an eyebrow as his fear grips his stomach. _Shit_. This is all coming out wrong; he’d better hurry if he doesn’t want to admit every single secret he’s ever had. He runs a hand down his face and hopes she can’t hear his heart beating.

“This has nothing to do with quidditch,” Harry amends. “It’s just — you were in the Slug Club before, yeah?”

The unspoken extension of his phrasing ( _before Christmas)_ hangs between them; if Ginny finds the topic switch off-putting, though, she doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, she kicks at the frozen grass. _“Yes.”_

Harry’s not sure why that sounds like an admission. He plows on. “So I was wondering… er… have you gotten an invitation to any more meetings?”

Her head snaps up to meet his — and in that instant, Harry realizes he’s completely misread something along the way.

 _“Oh!”_ Ginny lets out a breath as relief rolls across her features. “ _No,_ actually.” She smiles, shrugging. “And I rather like it that way, don’t have to make excuses not to go.”

Harry considers asking what she’d thought he’d been after, but he greatly prefers this coy, relaxed Ginny; he decides to keep her here as long as he can.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “I know what you mean.”

Ginny quirks a brow as her eyes fill with impish delight. “Why? Is the honeymoon over?”

Harry grins. “More or less.” He doesn’t ask how she knows about Slughorn’s favoritism; she probably has a friend in every single one of his classes.

“Ah,” Ginny laments, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So you’re an old married couple now.” She attempts a wince, but it ends up looking like a cross between a pout and a grimace.

Harry chortles and wonders if she knows how adorable she is.

Ginny ignores his outburst and takes another step forward before giving his arm a comforting little pat; Harry knows it’s a false display of compassion, but it still quickens his pulse.

_Bloody pathetic…_

“Don’t worry, Harry,” she says gravely. Her eyes twinkle in sharp contrast to her tone, but Harry doesn’t miss how her arm remains on his. “At 15 years old, I’m _quite_ the expert on detecting when the spark is gone.”

He laughs, shaking his head. A smile spreads from the corners of Ginny’s mouth, so sweeping it crinkles the corners of her eyes. Harry feels an irrational swell of pride that he’s put it there

“Yeah,” he sighs again, his eyes never wavering from hers. “If Slug won’t tell me he’s done having parties, I’m not sure _what_ this means for the two of us.”

— and for the next several hours, Harry will reflect on exactly what happens next. By bedtime, he’ll reach the conclusion he’s invented most it. But in this moment, Ginny is the only real thing in the world. His vision narrows, his mind zeroes in, his imagination spins into overdrive… and Harry constructs several ridiculous, sordid scenarios that might transpire, right here on the pitch…

It seems plausible that Ginny’s fingertips are dancing on his arm, that her cheeks are flushing in pleasure, that her eyes are heavy-lidded and glassy. This possibility is no more or less likely than him sinking to his knees as her fingers thread themselves through his hair.  

_Oh, Merlin…_

“Just remember, Harry,” Ginny murmurs, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Never go to bed angry.”

Harry laughs, but even that doesn’t break the spell — doesn’t shatter the autumnal glow hovering in the air. His eyes remain on the mesmeric pattern Ginny’s tracing on his arm, his every hair and heartbeat attuned to her dancing fingertips. A retort comes to him without conscious thought — which isn’t a good thing, because it swiftly passes through any of his social filters.

“I’d rather not think about Slug going to bed with _anyone,_ thanks.”

There’s a half-second pause, and Harry’s confident he’s overstepped. This is the first time he and Ginny have spoken about anything remotely resembling sex — and he’s not sure if it’s something he’s supposed to hedge around with his best mate’s sister.

 _Bollocks_. Now that he’s thought about sex while she’s standing in front of him, his blood pumps even harder through his veins. Harry knows Ginny’s not a Legilimens, but he’s irrationally terrified that she can read his mind, because the silence is stretching on _longer_ and _longer_ and —

But Ginny just sucks her teeth in mock derision; she’s not horribly offended or convinced he’s a pervert. Though perhaps she should be, because Harry reckons that’s closer to the truth.

“Now, now,” Ginny breathes, patting him on the arm again. Her tongue darts out to caress her lips; Harry suppresses a moan. “Is that _really_ the way to speak about your lover?”

Ginny’s brown eyes snap to his — presumably gauging the reaction to her own punch line — but Harry can’t bring himself to laugh. Not now. Not while his breath has frozen in his throat. One look into her eyes while she’s _this_ bloody close fills him with the familiar mixture of longing and self-doubt that’s plagued him since October.

And just as before, he knows Ginny feels it, too, whatever the hell it is, though he couldn’t define it for the life of him. All Harry knows is that he’s never shared it with anyone else. Not Ron. Not Hermione. Not Cho. Not Sirius. He reckons he never _will_ share it with anyone else, either, but this is another one of those things he doesn’t understand.

This time, though, whatever inexplicable connection he’s sharing with Ginny does not have the desired effect.

She pulls back abruptly, clearing her throat. Her arm detaches from his as if it’s never been, her face flushing the same color as her hair. Harry feels like he’s been thrown into a blizzard in the middle of a summer’s day.

“I’ve uh… I’ve got to study,” Ginny manages, stooping to collect her broom. She turns away from him, her plait shifting to the other side of her shoulder, and before Harry can say another word — or even apologize — she heads to the locker room.

“Let me know if you hear anything!” he calls, staring at her retreating back. She glances over her shoulder, but gives him nothing other than a curt nod.

Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and gazes at her until she disappears, wondering where in hell he went wrong. He’s misjudged something, he knows — but he honestly doesn’t know what he’s done this time. That’s why he’s always relied upon other people, always sought help from outside sources to figure out where he’s gone wrong.

It’s just a pity that all his sources have dried up.

After a few minutes trapped in a loop of despondency, Harry trudges to his locker room, too. He undresses in silence, more than a little annoyed that he can’t stop his body from humming with the memory of her touch. He knows Ginny doesn’t feel the same way. And that’s _fine_. Harry’s in a particular mood (one that comes across him every so often) where he reckons he’d just fuck it all up, even in the unlikely event he’d ever get a chance with her.

Of course, Harry wishes he could share this message with the more persistent parts of his anatomy.

He steps into the shower, and doesn’t need to glance down to know that he’s at full attention. He’s been that way since Ginny had touched his arm, which is even sadder than it sounds. Harry circumvents these feelings of self-pity by pretending he’s not the one touching himself — and for some reason, this works. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and lets the fantasy envelop him instead.

They’re back on the pitch, and Ginny’s eyes are twinkling again. Harry leans in to kiss her and she arches up to meet him with a sound somewhere between a moan and a shudder. For a few moments, they’re content to just kiss… but then she pulls back, panting, her right arm clutching his. She gives him a pointed look — and just like that, he knows what she wants.

Harry doesn’t hesitate before sinking to his knees, peeling down her trousers and knickers as he goes. Ginny gasps as she accommodates him, threading her fingertips through his hair. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he knows she’ll show him what she needs.

_Which is even hotter._

Ginny grips his head and brings him closer to the place he’s scarcely dared to dream about. His knowledge of this is a little fuzzy, but Harry’s eager to learn; he darts out his tongue, applying pressure exactly as she describes. Her moans build in his ears, her breath comes in sharp hitches of pleasure, and just when (he thinks) she’s getting close, words start tumbling from her lips, words that push him past the brink.

“Only yours,” Ginny whispers, unabashedly writhing against him — and even in the fantasy, Harry moans. “I’m _only_ yours, Harry.”

And though it’s his saddest orgasm to date, Harry absolutely explodes.

He roars with his climax, surging forward until he’s slumped on the cool tile wall. _Fuck._ He shudders and lets the water wash over his body just as the waves of pleasure wash over his cock — and when he achingly, _finally_ steps away with shaking legs, he tries very hard to avoid coming to terms with what this fantasy has just revealed.

* * *

Ron gets poisoned on his 17th birthday, which does absolutely nothing to stop Harry from developing even more elaborate conspiracy theories about Malfoy. Since shoving a bezoar down his best mate’s throat, Harry’s mind has been a blur of blinding darkness and white-hot rage and bubbling fear and pulsating insecurity. He’s so anxious and furious and confused that he hates every fucking second of it — even the seconds he spends with Ginny.

Hours later, Harry realizes he would’ve sunk much deeper into madness and despair if she hadn’t been there… but this is another one of those things he’s dreadful at noticing in time. Hours later, Harry will also reckon that McGonagall gave Ginny and Hermione the basics and told them to report to the hospital wing, but in his single-mindedness, he’d never even thought to ask.

Which makes him a colossal wanker.  

All Harry really knows is that after he’d finished recounting the story to McGonagall and Dumbledore, a white-faced Hermione had stormed down to the hospital wing and demanded answers. Harry had told her everything, which hadn’t been much; this is a theme that repeated itself for the next several hours.

Ginny had joined her a few moments later, looking equally pale — but one look at her face had told Harry all he’d needed to know; unlike Hermione (who’d been crumbling), he and Ginny had been on the same page, unified in their actions. She’d clearly been shaken, her hair in stark contrast with her fair skin, but a light behind her eyes had rung of purpose. They’d both been desperate for answers — but he and Ginny had shared a much more relentless desire to be useful. They hadn’t exchanged a single word regarding their true intentions, but he and Ginny had nonetheless spent the next two hours trying to be helpful in an utterly helpless situation.

And Merlin, it’s like the two of them had shared a brain.

They’d spoken in half-thoughts as they’d paced back and forth outside the door, finishing each other’s sentences and theorizing every circumstance that could have led to this. Harry’d still been hung up on the Slughorn/Malfoy angle, so he’d been glad that Hermione had contributed little beyond muffled sobs and clipped syllables of denial.

Around this time, Ginny’d proven herself to be quite a skilled multi-tasker, too — which is yet another area where Harry knows he’s shite. She’d been in the middle of floating a theory about Death Eaters when Hermione had given a particularly violent shudder. Without skipping a beat, Ginny had rushed to her friend, wrapped her arms around her, and whispered quiet reassurances.

Harry’d just gaped at them, unsure of what he should do; he’s shite at this part, too.

But Ginny had seemed to know this, or at least to understand it.

“Would you mind getting her some water and a handkerchief?” she’d asked, patting Hermione on the back. Ginny had given Harry a lingering look, which had told him all he’d needed to know: _Don’t hurry back._  When he’d returned some time later, Hermione’s tears had slowed — and yet again, Ginny had saved him from bringing any of that up. She’d simply collected the handkerchief, dabbed Hermione’s eyes, and continued where they’d left off.

And for the first time, Harry’d realized what Ginny had done: She’d made him feel useful. She’d made him feel like he’d contributed something.

But before Harry’d had the chance to thank her or to voice any of that, she’d been back at it again, floating theory after theory. Making him _think_.

And here they are now: thinking, pacing outside the hospital wing, although observational fragments (like the ones he’s just made about Ginny) have begun winding back through Harry’s mind. 

At some point during all this, Harry also realizes that Ginny is very skilled at telling him he’s wrong — but doing so with tact. She’s a master at re-framing questions, at posing things in different ways, at pausing, at starting again with comments like, “Well, follow that through. Does that _really_ make sense?” and “I’m not sure we’re seeing the big picture here, Harry.”

If Hermione were in a functional state (which she’s not), Harry’s sure she’d be much more aggressive in her approach. She’d have snapped at him a hundred times by now, she’d have demanded he stop focusing on Malfoy, she’d have presented an even more ridiculous theory.

And Ron… Harry swallows a lump in his throat as he paces again. Ron would try to make a joke. Ron _will_ make a joke, as soon as they’re able to speak with him again. Ron will find this whole thing bloody ridiculous. Ron wouldn’t tolerate them going to dark places, dwelling on things, thinking the worst…

Harry looks up as the doors open. Madam Pomfrey steps outside, her robes billowing, and she fixes them with a stern look. After a moment of pained silence, she gives them a nod; he, Ginny, and Hermione heave mutual sighs of relief. Harry prepares to charge inside, his mission refocused on laying eyes on Ron as quickly as he can. He only pauses when cool fingertips graze across his wrist, halting him in his tracks.

Oh.

He looks to his side, meeting Ginny’s eyes… and that’s when he feels it, yet again. That now-familiar feeling sweeps over him, that ephemeral blend of pain and pleasure — the way he only feels when she touches him. Harry stares back at her, but finds he already knows what she’s trying to say. A lock of red hair tumbles loose from behind her ear as she shakes her head. _Let Hermione go first._

Harry swallows, but then looks away as fast as he can. Emotions are running so close to the surface right now that he’s terrified of what he might say.

What he might _do_.

He stares at his trainers for a solid thirty seconds, willing time to pass, when achingly, _finally_ Ginny clears her throat beside him. It’s permission, if he’s ever heard it.

 _Right_.

Harry sets his jaw, takes a deep breath, and heads through the doors, Ginny at his side.

He’s glad that most awkwardness has dissipated by the time the three of them sit down at Ron’s bedside. Harry’s even happier when a welcome distraction arrives in the forms of Fred and George… but that’s the last bit of joy Harry feels for the rest of the evening. He’s miserable when Mrs. Weasley hugs him — and he’s even worse off when Mr. Weasley actually _thanks_ him. If Harry hadn’t spent ages fantasizing about the man’s only daughter (occasionally while under said man’s roof), he _still_ wouldn’t be deserving of praise.

Not for a second.

Harry had only done what anyone else would. Any of the Weasleys or any of the Order or any of his friends would have come up with a bezoar, too, in a bloody heartbeat. And besides, Harry has spent months wrapped in lurid thoughts (about someone in the Weasley family) and thrilling the second Ginny touches him and _wishing wishing wishing_ she’d chuck that numpty. All of this means Harry certainly doesn’t deserve the degree of grace they’ve bestowed, but that’s not something he can explain…  

When Madam Pomfrey appears from behind the curtain and reminds them of the visitor limit, Harry’s content to scurry off with Hagrid and Hermione. The Weasleys deserve to be together, he thinks. If he had a family, he reckons he’d want to be with them, too.

Harry longs for the comfort of his bed, but there are multiple distractions on the way. Hagrid mentions Snape being angry at Dumbledore, and then Peeves arrives, and then McLaggen demands a spot on the team. It all happens so fast that Harry’s brain is still whirring when he finally slides beneath the sheets an hour later, wishing he could hear Ron snoring beside him. He stares up at his curtains, eyes wide and unseeing, and tries not to think too hard about how differently today could have gone.

And it’s only then that Harry realizes Ginny had thrown the word _Voldemort_ around without flinching a single time.

* * *

 

Harry only hears about it after the fact, but the Hufflepuff match is an utter embarrassment — so much that he wishes he’d just followed Malfoy instead. At least something positive might’ve come from the whole ordeal.

The thought that Ginny was here is doing things to him, though… he sighs and flips over on his back. He’d really thought summoning Kreacher and Dobby would take care of the restless unease vibrating through his limbs, but he’s since reckoned that his conundrum is twofold.

Malfoy is only half the problem; the other is Ginny.

Harry swallows and glimpses at Ron in his peripheral vision. He’s still sleeping soundly, his red hair nearly blue in the dim light of the hospital wing. Guilt surges through Harry’s chest, but not strongly enough to stop his cock from twitching with more insistence. His earlier fantasy comes rushing back to the forefront of his mind — the vision of Ginny _having feelings_ for him — and Harry shakes his head, suppressing a strangled whimper.

This is different from glimpsing her thigh as she walks away from the breakfast table. This is different from focusing on the divot of her arse as she bends over her broom. This is different from staring at her chest as she leans back in the sun. Because — here and now — this goes far, _far_ beyond simple attraction; Harry’s simultaneously sadder and more aroused than he’s ever been.

He lets out a wheezy moan and flips over onto this left side. His head spins as he moves, a forceful reminder of his earlier inadequacies on the quidditch pitch. Of his general distraction. Harry’s cock throbs against the seam of his trousers and he slams his eyes closed, _hoping hoping hoping_ to get himself under control. But fuck, it’s no use; the scene continues playing in his mind’s eyes, more vibrant and glorious and filthy than before.

He imagines Ginny staring at him from the side of the bed, arms crossed over her chest as concern wrinkles her brow. Perhaps she’d lean in, trailing a finger down the side of his face. Maybe she’d whisper quiet reassurances, lilting syllables of worry falling from her lips.

And then Harry would open his eyes and seize her hand in his. Ginny would gasp as solace (" _He’s alive!”_ ) washes across her features. She’s so pleased, so filled with rapture, that she’s only able to lunge forward and pepper his face with kisses. Maybe she moans his name and wraps her arms around his shoulders, maybe she caresses his aching head… and they both lie there, panting, as they simultaneously notice she’s straddling him.

_Shit._

Harry gasps and finds his hand has already wrapped itself around his cock. He bites his lip, pausing mid-stroke; it’s rather vile doing this while her brother is asleep not 3 meters away, isn’t it? Harry makes a last-ditch attempt to get his libido under control…  but then his cock jerks beneath his grasp, and the decision is made for him.

He groans, but rationalizes that this isn’t much different from how it’s been before; he’s been doing this next to Ron for several months. The only difference is that the curtains of his four-poster have provided a false sense of security; now, though, he’ll just have to be quick.

Fortunately, Harry’s always been skilled at pretending he’s somewhere else. He slams his eyes shut again, brings his hand to the base of his cock, and resumes his slow, even strokes. The scene explodes out of the darkness clouding his vision, Ginny’s moonlit frame angelic and soft from her position in his lap. She shucks off her quidditch kit, tossing it over the side of the bed, and Harry _knows_ what she has planned. Ginny leans forward for another searing kiss; there’s not a hint of insecurity, no room for awkwardness as she presses her bare breasts against his chest. They don’t have time for explanations or pleasantries or muttered oaths of longing; the only real thing is this tangible need coursing through them both.

“Want you,” she breathes, and the scene shifts. She slides herself up his torso, rubbing her heated center against his stomach; Harry’s inexplicably naked, too. Ginny’s staring at him through heavy-lidded, lust-filled eyes. He has no concept of what she’s like down there, but he reckons she’s wet and warm and _amazing_ — and in his fantasy, that’s exactly how she feels.

Ginny leans her head back as she rocks, surrendering herself to pleasure… and that’s when he gets an idea.

“Move up,” he grunts. Harry’s only heard about this before, seen it scribbled on a loo stall; in his fantasy, though, it seems like the best idea. Ginny gives him a quizzical look, but in one swift motion (one he surely couldn’t replicate in reality), Harry grips her hips, hoists her into the air, and sets her down on his face.

After that, it’s over fast — mostly because Harry has no idea what this position would look like. But he can _imagine_. He can almost hear Ginny keening and whimpering as she rubs herself against his mouth with more insistence, her head tilted back, her eyes unfocused, and in just a few minutes she’s gasping and crying out.

“ _Harry_ ,” Ginny pants, her breasts bouncing above him. “I lo—”

Harry groans as he climaxes, his cock pulsing all over his clenched fist. His breathes through his nose and tries as hard as he can to remain silent; the peak is relentless, so intense it’s almost painful, the sort of orgasm that steals your breath with its ferocity. When it abates, Harry eases his eyes open; sparks of light are still exploding around him, swimming through the sterile air.

There’s a much bigger issue he needs to face, though — the mess he’s left behind. Harry winces and wraps his hand around the cool handle of his wand, thankful that he always keeps it close. Then he pauses, his wand over his stomach; a half-formed concern about being _overheard_ crosses his mind, but Harry dismisses this thought just as fast. He’d been _much_ louder when he’d… finished. Harry shakes his head at his own stupidity before vanishing what he can. He vows to rise early and shower — just as soon as his head stops pounding.

Harry sighs and flops to his back again. This is one of those moments where he’s glad he doesn’t over-analyze feelings, where he’s pleased he doesn’t over-think emotional connections. Instead, he simply stares up at the ceiling… and tries very, _very_ hard to pretend that this wasn’t the best orgasm he’s had in a long time.

And that whatever the hell Fantasy Ginny had almost, _almost_ uttered hadn’t propelled him into it.

* * *

Being attracted to someone and fancying them are very, very different things.

Ginny has six brothers; she knows this better than anyone.

She’s certain that her parents hadn‘t planned it this way, but at least one of the Weasley brothers has been pubescent since her birth. As such, Ginny had grown up watching her brothers salivate over dirty wizarding magazines and compare notes about girls at Hogwarts and hedge around discussions on wanking.

Once upon a time, Ginny might’ve thought her brothers actually fancied these witches she’d heard about during late-night conversations well past her bedtime. But over the years, she’d wised up. Men (and women too, she supposes) don’t necessarily crave relationships with the people they consider wank-worthy.

So, yes, Ginny can concede that Harry’s attracted to her. She reckons she’d have to be completely blind to deny that.

His eyes haunt her for the rest of their time at the Burrow. Gone is the curious-albeit-detached stare he’d fixed her with for so, so long, back when she reckons she’d been a mere source of intrigue. A specimen on a shelf. An anonymous extension of his best friend.

Gone are the awkward pauses of past years, the stilted vocalizations from when he honestly hadn’t known what to do with her — this little red-haired girl who’d blushed in his presence and written him terrible poetry.

Every prolonged gaze from those deep, emerald eyes sends a wicked thrill through her core, compels a deep vibrating hum at the apex of her thighs, makes Ginny _wish wish wish_ he’d stop…

Because she knows that Harry has absolutely no idea what the hell he’s doing to her body when he looks at her like that.

And it’s  _not_ fucking fair.

Harry has no way of knowing she’d spent the remainder of Christmas hols escaping to the loo to relieve the mounting pressure _he’d_ put there, her fingers slipping and sliding across soaked cotton. Harry has no way of knowing that something as mundane as quidditch outside the Burrow gets her wet, especially when his voice takes on that low, deep quality she fears she’ll always associate with  _that dream_.

Thankfully, Ginny is also firmly aware of the aforementioned difference between being attracted to someone and fancying them. Which she reckons is her only saving grace.  

She knows Harry doesn’t have feelings for her; that much is painfully obvious.

After all, she’d spent the better part of three years watching Harry bumble around Cho. She’d watched him sputter and trip and try to talk to the girl and agonize over what he didn’t understand. Ginny had even watched Harry mourn the dwindling embers of their relationship in the library before Easter last year. She’d been prepared to give the poor bloke some advice, but even then (even while the two of them were technically together), Harry had been more concerned about Sirius than Cho.

Nothing about Harry and Cho’s relationship (if you could call it that) had ever made sense to Ginny, which she supposes is what happens when you base a courtship around attraction alone. Cho is a girl who needs constant reassurance, the sort who requires feedback to ensure that she’s doing exactly as she should at all times. Harry is the type of bloke who cringes when girls cry. The two are simply incompatible; even Hermione had picked up on that.

For all of those reasons, though, Ginny is thoroughly convinced that when Harry fancies someone, that is how he behaves. He turns into a clumsy, stammering mess. He reverts to the most awkward version of himself. He forgets what his limbs are for. And more than anything else, Harry definitely, _definitely_ doesn’t continue to have normal, day-to-day interactions with the object of his affections.

But Harry has _many_ interactions with her, the types of interactions that have her inner 11-year-old jumping for joy again. By now, she and Harry are adept at day-to-day pleasantries and exchanging facial expressions whenever Bill and Fleur do something nauseating and chatting about inconsequential things. Yet Ginny can’t help but imagine an undercurrent of electricity brimming beneath the surface of each exchange.

It’s only when she and Harry _stop_ talking, really, that Ginny even notices that something’s amiss… because that’s when she sees him whipping his head in the other direction or loudly clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck. (Harry’s always been terrible at hiding his guilt; Ginny doesn’t reckon that the current circumstance is any exception.)

So with that, Ginny decides upon a new course of action the night before she returns to Hogwarts.

First and foremost, she won’t be chucking Dean — not right away, at least. Things with him haven’t always been perfect, but Ginny sits herself down to examine the facts of their relationship. As she sees it, the facts give her clear answers that aren’t befuddled with green eyes and hormones and ( _fuck_ ) the sensation of Harry’s gaze traveling up her backside every time he watches her leave—

Ahem.

_No._

_The facts_ are as follows:

Fact one: She’s been with Dean for the better part of a year.

Fact two: She doesn’t hate being his girlfriend — and sometimes she quite likes it.

Fact three: Dean’s a good boyfriend. Most of the time.

And fact four — the penultimate fact, the only reason she’s pondering these facts at all — is that another boy is (suddenly) attracted to her, too.

So when Ginny looks at things that objectively, the answer is obvious: What has this new boy ever offered her?

If she’s being honest, a lot of boys are attracted to her. Ginny’s no stranger to this, but she’s not a cow about it, either; growing up with six brothers taught her that blokes will stare at anything that moves. Would chucking Dean even cross her mind if the boy in question _weren’t_ Harry?

Another fact: No. No, it wouldn’t.

 _Right_.

Thus, Ginny reaches the conclusion it would be unconscionable to throw away everything she’s shared with Dean because of the newfound sexual whims of another boy.

Instead, Ginny focuses on preparing exactly what she’ll share with Dean when she returns to Hogwarts. She reckons the hardest part will be sharing that the… experience… in the Room of Requirement hadn’t left her feeling particularly comfortable. Dean will feel dreadful about it, but to stay with him, she needs to be honest.

Then, if Dean gets whiny or petulant or sulky, she’ll chuck him. _Easy_.

Ginny will be using the same frame of mind to inform Dean that things won’t progress beyond snogging. And if he has an issue with that (which she doubts he will), she’ll see yet another a clear-cut opportunity to chuck him, right on the spot. Ginny really can’t summon the fucks to care if she spends the rest of her fifth year without a boyfriend. She has no qualms with being single — it’s just that she hasn’t had much opportunity to practice.

And if she practices, so be it. _The end_.

Her chance for this confrontation arrives as soon as they return to school. Ginny reluctantly goes in search of her boyfriend, but he beats her to the punch; she hasn’t even crawled all the way through the portrait hole when she sees an extended pair of open arms waiting for her.

“ _Ginny_!” Dean’s voice exclaims, and with that, she’s pulled from the tiny tunnel and into a warm embrace. Normally, Ginny would roll her eyes or snort… but it’s oddly endearing that he’s so excited to see her.

“Excuse me!” he announces loudly, tugging her to his chest as if she weighs nothing and striding to the corner of the room. _“Coming through!”_

Ginny’s so taken aback that she giggles before she can help it. It’s rather out of character for Dean, this level of spontaneity. He’s always been noble, of course — but he’s always been rather predictable in his acts of selflessness. Ginny doesn’t know what’s changed; she also can’t decide if she likes it or not.

By the time he places her down by the fireplace, an expectant smile on his face, she’s decided she likes it — but she’d rather Dean not find that out; she’s certain this knowledge would be dangerous in his hands.

“Prat,” she says, swatting him on the bicep. “I’m perfectly capable of getting through the portrait hole myself.”

Dean grins, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. I know. But this is more fun, eh?”

She tries not to give him the satisfaction of a smirk. “For _you_ , maybe.”

Dean’s grin widens, but she supposes it looks sheepish enough. _Good._ Ginny arches an eyebrow as she takes him in, the boy she’s simultaneously spent the past several weeks both hardly thinking about — and also thinking about quite a lot. Dean is good-looking, isn’t he? _Yes_ … that much is a given. His brown eyes twinkle in the light from the fireplace, his mouth still stretched into a bashful grin. Dean’s face holds a tender expressiveness, a quiet sensitivity. It’s hard to describe, but Ginny’s always seen Dean’s artistic nature reflected in his eyes. It’s like you can tell he’s an artist by looking at his face...

“I missed you,” he blurts, looking up at her again. He’s so earnest, so _sincere_ , that part of her softens. Ginny hasn’t even realized she’s lost in his eyes until a piece of hair slips down from the part of her hair. She shakes her head and moves to tuck it behind her ear, but Dean interrupts her with an excited yelp. “Oh — _wait_!”

Dean’s whole face contorts in a squint as he fishes in his pocket. _Bleh_. For a brief, _mortifying_ moment, Ginny’s reminded of the face he’d made right before he’d—

“Aha!” Dean declares, removing his hand from his pocket. There’s something black and circular pinched between his fingers, and he grins in triumph. From the look on his face, you’d think he’d won the Quidditch House Cup.

“ _Oh_ ,” Ginny whispers. She takes the object from him and stares at it in her palm, both confused and impressed. It's a hair tie — nearly identical to the type she uses every day; she not sure how she feels that Dean studies her ponytails enough to know which type to buy. Or that he’s taken it upon himself to buy those in the first place.

When she looks up at him a few moments later, Dean’s still regarding her with eager anticipation, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. Ginny’s also not sure what she’s meant to do other than tie her hair back. So she reaches to her hair and gathers it into a ponytail with a muffled _“Thanks?”_

 _“Sure,_ ” Dean says with a perfunctory nod. Ginny’s about to ask why he’s suddenly chosen to carry female hair accessories, but then he clears his throat and answers for her.

“I, um.” He swallows, staring at his shoes. Then Dean meets her eyes again, and Ginny understands: He feels guilty.

“I feel bad… about what happened,” he clarifies, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. Even from this distance, she can tell he’s blushing. She opens her mouth to explain that he doesn’t have much to feel sorry for, but he cuts her off with a raised hand.

“No,” Dean says firmly, shaking his head. “You weren’t…” He trails off with a wince. “You weren’t totally ok with it. With what happened,” he adds, raising his eyebrows significantly. And then, with more emphasis: _“You know.”_

Ginny shudders and wonders if it would be possible for anyone alive to _miss_ what the hell he’s talking about, but Dean thunders on, undeterred.

“I made it about me,” he admits, shuffling his trainers. “I didn’t think about you. And that’s…” Dean huffs in resignation, his arms crossed over his chest.

There’s a pregnant pause.

“T-that’s _not_ ok,” he finally finishes, averting his eyes. “I know better. It won’t happen again. All right?”

Dean peers up at her through his dark lashes, culpability splashed across his features… and suddenly, Ginny finds she doesn’t care nearly as much about the portrait hole or the hair tie as she did before.

* * *

 Over the next few weeks, things with Dean are lovely — better than they’ve been in close to a year, if Ginny’s being honest. He doesn’t pressure her, he doesn’t push, he even dials the nobility down when she asks. They’ve snogged a few times since his… _proclamation_... but nothing nearly as heated as before.

And for the first time in Ginny’s life, she doesn’t seek more, either. She’s content to wank on her own when the need arises — and the fact that Dean doesn’t cross her mind in the process isn’t a source of internal conflict. _Not really_. Not when all it takes is a single reminder of Harry’s eyes drifting up the swell of her arse for her to finish the job as expediently as possible.

By late January, Ginny is firm in her decision that being with Dean is a more logical choice. This decision is only solidified as she watches Harry glare and brood and pace in the common room one evening. Ginny has no idea what’s bothering Harry — partly because he’d never bloody tell her anyway, and partly because he’s probably so upset about so many things it would be hard to pinpoint just one.

And right now? She doesn’t particularly care.

Ginny turns her head to Dean, who’s giving Seamus an easy grin as they pass a bottle of butterbeer back and forth. Dean leans back and laughs at a joke she hasn’t heard, his eyes alight with teenage mischief, and Ginny feels a surge of warmth spreading from her stomach to her knees. She snuggles in more deeply beneath his arm. Yes; she’s made the right choice.

Because Dean has absolutely no connection to the darkness that had plagued her for so long. He’s devoid of a single link between the fractured man who’d ripped his way through her life. Dean’s a good boyfriend —  the perfect _teenaged_ boyfriend, the sort who acts exactly as he should. Spending time with him makes Ginny feel like she’s wrapped in a blanket, like she’s supported on all sides with an invisible gossamer safety net.

And yet…

Ginny bites her lip and curses that Harry’s peripheral movements have commanded her attention. She glimpses over before she can help it, just as Harry runs his hands through his hair. Ginny watches the tendons shift on his forearms, sees the muscles ripple up his shoulders.

_Bollocks._

Ginny whips her head back to Dean and pretends to blame the butterbeer for the sudden flood of heat between her thighs. She grabs the bottle from his hand and takes a large gulp. Dean hardly notices; Ginny’d known he wouldn’t care. He adjusts his arm on her shoulders, angling himself to continue his chat with Seamus. Ginny turns to stare at the fire… and it’s only then, when she _should_ be filled with warmth and happiness, that she permits her thoughts drift to Tom.

Ginny’d long ago accepted that this season (late winter into spring) is more difficult than it should be. After some distance from _that year_ , the rational part of her mind knows that Tom doesn’t exist — not in the charming, charismatic way he’d presented himself. Ginny also knows he’s since morphed into something considerably more dangerous, but she’d be lying if she said Voldemort scared her more.

She knows his _name_ reduces her mother to a shaking, nervous wreck, but Voldemort’s control over others alarms Ginny far more than the man, himself.  She’s always found insidious lurking and smooth talking to be a deadlier combination than blunt evil. Still, it’s hard to erase trauma that shapes who you are as a person, and Ginny knows this better than anyone. The diary hasn’t existed since she was eleven, but this time of year still forces her to confront the ghostly echoes of the scared, enslaved child she’d been.

She makes a face, shifting on the sofa. Ginny thinks she’s fortunate, really, that Tom only crosses her mind when she feels the absolute worst about herself.

Or when she’s trying to convince herself of an objective falsehood.

And right now — while she’s seated next to her _bloody boyfriend_ — Ginny finds herself seized with the notion (however incorrect) that Harry only arouses her because of what she’d once shared with Tom.

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

 _Yes_ , she rationalizes; _it makes perfect sense_.

That was one of the first things Tom had sorted out, after all — the depths of Ginny’s feelings for the green-eyed boy who’d defeated You-Know-Who. Of course, being Tom, he’d exploited this as much as he could. When he’d flat-out asked if Harry had awoken certain _sensations_ in Ginny’s body, she hadn’t denied it. At the time, Ginny’d scarcely known what that sensation _was_ — that pulsing tug — but she’d known Harry was responsible.

So, she reckons, leaning her head back against Dean’s arm… these feelings she now has for Harry are just a holdover from something a child never should’ve faced.

 _Right_. A lazy smile crosses her face. Sorting out her feelings always makes Ginny feel better, but she’s certain the butterbeer hadn’t hurt.

Dean turns and places a soft kiss on her lips, and to her surprise, she absolutely _melts_. She giggles against his mouth as her hand comes to grip the back of his head, and yes… she feels _warm_. They snog until Seamus makes gagging sounds, and when Ginny sheepishly breaks from Dean’s embrace, she pretends that he’s the one who’s caused the thrumming at her center.

* * *

A few days before Valentine’s Day, Dean starts to get _frustrated_ , which does nothing to improve Ginny already lukewarm opinion of the occasion.

To Dean’s credit, though, he still goes out of his way to be respectful.

The most blatant display of this… _pent-up frustration_ … occurs a few days before the fourteenth. Ginny’s taken to initiating snogging before quidditch as opposed to after; she finds it easier to keep her mind focused on the game (and not Harry) if she’s worked through some _feelings_ beforehand.

So when she tugs on Dean’s hand and guides him to a much more abandoned corridor on the way to the pitch, she’s expecting a lighthearted snog — one that re-balances her concentration.

And for the most part, things are going swimmingly; Dean’s pressed her against a stone wall, one of his hands gripping her hip as the other brushes across red tendrils at her neck.

Ginny moans and relaxes into the kiss, and she marvels for just a moment that the moan isn’t one of pleasure… not exactly. She’s more so just _comforted,_  like she’s wrapped in a caress of warm, glowing affection. Ginny’s far from minding it; when Dean’s lips replace his fingers on her neck, she arches her back against the stone, pleasantly surprised at the trail of gooseflesh left in their wake.

But then Dean does something that shifts the progression of the entire evening: He pulls back for just a second, regards her with plaintive, _pleading_ eyes, and trails his hand from her hip to below her ribcage. Ginny probably would’ve been content to let him touch her stomach, if that’s where he’d stopped… but the moment his fingertips graze the underside of her bra, something snaps.

She has no fucking idea why, but somehow — in the middle of the empty corridor, while her boyfriend is _touching her_ — she thinks about Tom Riddle, instead.

It always starts the same way, with a cloud of inky fog seeping through the edges of her consciousness. Ginny knows if she doesn’t stop soon, if she doesn’t eject herself from whatever situation she’s in, the thoughts will follow. Over the years, she’s taught herself to ignore these missives of self-loathing _(“You’re worthless.” “He only wants you for your body.” “Everyone hates you.”_ ), but she’d just as soon avoid them. If she can.

Ginny shivers, jerking away, her mind hurtling as far from her boyfriend’s fingertips as possible.

To Dean’s credit, he reacts both appropriately and instantaneously.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, dropping his hand as if she’s burned him. His eyes are wide with shock. “I’m, _um._ ” Dean clears his throat and runs a hand down his face. “Sorry, Ginny! What… whatever you _want_ is—”

Ginny sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’d really rather not explain, on top of everything else. So she decides she simply _won’t_.

“Dean,” she says curtly. “It’s fine. I’m just…” She shuffles her feet and numbly wonders why this is so awkward. “Let’s be done with this,” she finishes, an air of decisiveness in her tone.

A beat.

 _“Ok?”_   

Dean swallows through a fervent nod. “Y-yeah! _Sure_!”

Ginny pushes up from the wall and straightens her robes. She gives him a tight smile. “Well. We’d… better get _going_ , I s’pose.”

Dean nods again, but doesn’t move from his position. Ginny pauses as a vein ticks in his jaw.

“Are you… coming?”

She immediately regrets her phrasing.

Dean’s hands remain splayed on the stone. “ _Yeah,_ ” he mutters, his voice deeper than normal, his eyes averted. “Just… give me a second?”

_Oh._

Blood rushes to Ginny’s cheeks as she bites her lip. Well, _this_ is awkward. And not at all arousing… at least for her. She spends the next minute carefully inspecting her nail beds before Dean finally, _finally_ pushes off from the wall.

Then, casually as you please, he reaches for her hand — and with that, they head to the pitch without a single bad feeling lingering in the air. _And that,_  Ginny reminds herself as they trek outside, _is why they’re together._

Dean is kind. He’s respectful. He’s understanding. When they reach the pitch, he makes a joke and brushes snow from her shoulder, his eyes bereft of any animosity. Ginny doesn’t mind how his fingers shift in her hair, doesn’t flinch from his knuckles dragging across the end of her plait.

Then a voice booms from behind her… and that voice changes fucking _everything._

“Ginny,  I need to speak to you after practice.”

 _Fuck_. Ginny freezes. She doesn’t know why, but Harry sounds _angry_ … and despite how far she knows she is from Tom, despite how Dean’s hands are still on her shoulders, she can’t help but feel that familiar fog seeping into her brain.

This time, she doesn’t let it get that far.

Instead, she’s filled with rage that Harry thinks he can bark demands like that. What’s she done to deserve that tone? What the hell is his problem? Ginny turns on the spot, arms crossed over her chest, prepared to read him the riot act. She thinks she hears Dean shuffling too, but she’s not sure…

Because the moment she locks eyes with Harry, something changes.  

 _Oh._ Ginny swallows; they’re having one of those moments, are they?

Ginny’s only had a few of these with Harry, but she reckons she’s never experienced the same sensation before or since. Her vision narrows at she looks at him. Pathetic as it is, Harry’s the only thing she can focus on. His eyes are dark, penetrating, _searing_ in the thin winter air, but she doesn’t even notice the cold until Dean awkwardly clears his throat behind her.

_Fuck._

She’s certain Harry hasn’t heard Dean, though, not when he hasn’t broken her eye contact, even for a second. So Ginny merely arches an eyebrow… and hopes that will convey what she means: _Yes. But we’re in front of everyone._

Harry figures it out remarkably fast.

He rips his head away from hers with such ferocity it’s like he needs the distance to breathe. He shakes his head a few times before turning to face the team, but if any words come out of his mouth, Ginny hasn’t a clue what they might be. She’s still focused on the way Harry’s pupils had grown when he’d stared at her, like a gaping black hole in a sparkling emerald lake.

Ginny’s thankful that quidditch has always been her escape; she reckons that’s the only way she keeps upright as Harry’s eyes roam over her body for the next thirty minutes. Just like always, she can _feel it_ when he does that, which is truly the worst part; his eyes leave a searing trail from her waist to her arse, wrapping around her backside until the broom becomes uncomfortable beneath her. When Harry tells them to pack it in early, Ginny’s relieved; she’s gotten herself more worked up than she’d like to admit.  

The rest of the team heads inside, but Dean just _hovers_ , which only adds to the sensation of antsy discomfort. Dean’s giving her a significant look; Ginny assumes he finds this deep and meaningful, because his eyes contain an odd combination of hope and misplaced chivalry — like he’s expecting Ginny to be _pleased_ that he verified this meeting with her first.

Ginny gives Dean a cool nod and hopes he gets it from there. But because he’s _Dean,_  he really doesn’t. He turns away, a dejected expression on his face, and with a sigh, Ginny accepts that she’ll have yet _another_ thing to explain later tonight.

Then she turns back to Harry, clearing her throat. She’s not sure what the hell he wants, but she takes a stab.  She’s been less focused on quidditch since they’ve returned from hols, but this really isn’t her fault, either; Harry’s bloody distracting when he’s dark and brooding, and his eyes are even worse.

“Was uh…” She clears her throat. “Were you concerned about my playing? Or something else?”

Harry looks horrified the moment she asks it. “No!” he gushes. “No, that’s — you’re brilliant!”

Ginny’s loathe to admit it, but even though she _knows_ Harry hasn’t meant it like that, calling her “brilliant” still does things to her inner 11-year-old. _Great._

But then (just as quickly) Harry must recognize what he’s actually _said_ , because he groans, running a hand down his face. Lovely; he’s mortified at the mere thought.

“This has nothing to do with quidditch,” he says hastily. “It’s just — you were in the Slug Club before, yeah?”

 _Oh._ Ginny flushes and she kicks at the grass. She doesn’t know why he’d bring up the Christmas party, but it’s something she’d like to avoid remembering, too.

“Yes.”

“So I was wondering… er… have you gotten an invitation to any more meetings?”

Her face snaps up to meet his. Well, _that’s_ not what she’d been expecting. She’s happy to talk about Slughorn with him. Or Slug Club. Or literally anything except the Christmas party… and why she wasn’t there.

She’s so relieved by this change of topic that the banter glides off her tongue like butter in a frying pan. It’s effortless to make wisecracks about Harry and Slughorn — and it’s even _easier_ because Harry’s such a bloody good sport about it. He’s not offended or put out or defensive, even when she mentions them being an old married couple.

Before she knows it, Ginny steps forward; it’s as if her feet are compelled by some unseen magnet, like every part of her body needs to get closer to his. She makes a crack about going to bed angry and pats Harry on the arm, and although she’d never admit it aloud, touching his arm makes her feel _hot_.

They continue bantering, words slipping and sliding past them, and Ginny doesn’t know why... but tracing Harry’s arm feels so _natural_. It’s bizarre (and Ginny doesn’t really understand it), but each stroke of her fingertips turns her on, each swirl tugs at her center. And she’s not comfortable or warm or wrapped in a blanket... she’s _hot._  She’s fucking hot, _everywhere_ , so hot that when Harry makes a comment vaguely alluding to Slughorn and sex, she’s only capable of blinking at him through heavy-lidded eyes and wondering why he isn’t making that joke about _them_ , instead.

Ginny holds back from revealing that. But just barely. She keeps tracing the slow, easy path on his forearm, and her final retort (“Is that really any way to speak about your lover?”) comes far too easily. Ginny snaps her face up to Harry’s, prepared to see mirth reflected in his eyes.

But there’s nothing funny about this.

Harry’s giving her _that look_ as his breath heaves in his chest. His arm is limp beneath hers… and Ginny accepts, through a hungry haze, that she’d _be_ his lover

 _Right now_.

He could touch her ribcage — and that’s the bloody least. He could undress her and suck her nipples to stiff peaks and grind himself against her and touch her, absolutely _everywhere._ She wouldn't tell him to stop, either… not until she clutched his back and cried out with the same release she’d found so many years ago while thinking about him, in the first place.

And based on the way Harry’s staring back at her, he wouldn’t mind that, either. In fact, Ginny sees it with certainty: Harry would gladly run his lips up and down her body. He’d cup her breasts with shaking hands, he’d sink to his knees, he’d part her thighs, he’d absolutely _worship_ her with his mouth. Ginny also knows his own needs wouldn’t cross his mind until he’d reduced her to a quivering, aching mess, until he’d diminished her to nothing more than a puddle of want: He’d leave her gagging for it. And she’d let him.

Fuck. _She’d let him._

Ginny freezes, seized with sudden horror as she stares into Harry’s eyes. When had she allowed him to take her under? When had she permitted the mounting waves of pleasure to not only tickle her feet, but tug her beneath the surface? When had she allowed Harry — _and Harry’s fucking eyes_ — to dredge her body across the rocky ocean floor? She’s never once granted anyone ( _anyone!_ ) the right to turn her on this much, not this fast, not this powerfully. Why should the bloody _Boy Who Finally Noticed Her_ be any different?

_No._

“I’ve uh… I’ve got to study.” She rips her head away and picks up her broom, hoping he can’t tell how badly she’s shaking. Ginny dimly registers Harry’s voice asking her to keep him posted, but she can’t be bothered to care; she needs to take care of this, as embarrassing as it is. She’s mortified that her libido has taken priority over manners and decency, but she reckons explaining would only make it worse.

Ginny walks into the locker room in a trance, her eyes and hands scarcely able to coordinate well enough to remove her clothing and step beneath the shower. Normally she’d be more discreet. Normally she’d take greater lengths to get a towel first or ensure the room is empty before traipsing around naked.

Now, though, there’s not much else she can focus on… not when she can still feel Harry’s arm beneath her fingertips, not when she can still feel his skin on hers, not when she can still feel him undressing her with his eyes.

 _Fuck._ Ginny moans and tilts her head beneath the spray. Water courses down her face and onto her breasts, and she touches them without giving it a second thought. _Yesss._  She arches her back as desire licks its way up her thighs, as pleasure turns her skin to scorched earth, and before she knows it, she’s not in the locker room anymore. Ginny’s so far removed that she’s not even in the shower; she’s scarcely aware of the one hand that’s pinching her nipple as the other rubs circles on her clit.

Instead, she’s standing in front of Harry, just as she had been a few moments ago… but this time, he’s kneeling in front of her, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust and adoration. He reaches a shaking hand to pull down her trousers and knickers, and they both know he doesn’t have to ask first; he _knows_ she wants it.

“Ginny,” he breathes, his voice filled with wonder. He drags his fingers up her thigh, never breaking eye contact once. Harry inches higher, just a bit… and then, through a choked moan: “ _Fuck,_  you’re so wet.”

She whimpers in agreement as Harry leans in, pressing kisses to the inside of her thigh, and when he glimpses up at her again through smoldering green eyes, his expression confirms what she’s always suspected: _He wants her to come first._

Harry releases a startled moan as he slides a finger inside her, but they _both_ know it’s not enough. Ginny doesn’t hesitate to guide his head, to place him exactly where she needs him; she doesn’t know why she’s never thought about Harry doing this before — or about _anyone_ doing this before — but fuck, it’s incredible, even when it’s not real. The pressure builds and builds behind Ginny’s eyes and she bucks her hips, no longer certain if she’s doing this to herself or if Harry’s kneeling in front of her. She can almost hear the graveled moans vibrating from deep in his chest as he drives her to the brink.

Then she imagines Harry’s head tilting up to meet hers, his eyes darker than she’s ever seen them.

And she can’t fucking take it anymore.  

Ginny cries out as her orgasm thunders into her, a choked, strangled sound that’s nearly drowned out by the sounds of water falling around her. She reckons the shower is the only thing that tethers her to earth, the only thing that reminds her she’s not _actually_ permitting Harry to reduce her to a plash of pulsing heat.   

Ginny opens her eyes several moments later, scarcely able to keep upright as the world comes back into focus.

_Fuck._

She’s able to dry off and get dressed, but just barely; she feels so content, _so at peace,_  that she’s got no desire to do anything other than dive beneath the covers of her four-poster.

But Dean interrupts these plans, as he has a tendency to do.

Ginny makes her way to the common room in a sleepy haze. She’s so damn distracted that she doesn’t even notice a pair of arms reaching for her until she’s practically being dragged through the portrait hole; she’s still humming ( _everywhere_ ) and sensitive ( _everywhere_ ). Being touched without asking is the _last_ fucking thing she needs right now.

She makes an annoyed chirp as Dean pulls her through, though he hardly seems to notice as he sets her down in front of the portrait hole. In fact, he looks almost triumphant, like he‘s done her a favor. Ginny gives him a tired glare and vows to have  _a talk_ tomorrow about boundaries.

Dean, however, is completely oblivious. “ _So,"_ he starts, clearing his throat. “What did… what did _Harry_ want?”

 _Oh._ She’d almost forgotten that she’d met him. Ginny’s face burns as she separates their actual conversation from her shower. “He um… he asked about Slughorn’s parties. Slug Club, you know.”

For some reason, Dean scoffs at that; Ginny looks up, puzzled.

“Wha—?”

“That’s a load,” he says firmly, his mouth in a thin line. Why does he actually look _angry_? “ _Look_ , Ginny,” Dean sighs, shaking his head. “Just _tell me_ what he actually—”

“—That is what he wanted!” Ginny interrupts, suddenly enraged. She shakes her head in bewilderment. She and Dean had talked about this, once — about her embarrassing childhood crush on the Boy Who Lived that had been obvious for the world to see. They’d discussed how _mortifying_ it was that everyone (including Dean) had known, even then. They’d chatted about how  _uncomfortable_ it had been to live under the same roof as Harry when she’d been nothing more than a nuisance.

And that’s probably why it’s making her so mad that Dean’s brought it up. Even then (even when she’d been _annoying_ ) Dean knows Harry had been a total gentleman.

“What? Do you think Harry… I don’t know… propositioned me for a shag?” she demands, hands on her hips. Her earlier lethargy is nowhere to be seen. “Do you think Harry asked if I’d like to give him a knob job behind the—”

“—Ok!” Dean hastens, raising his hands in defense as he takes a nervous glance around the common room. “ _Ok!_  I’m- I’m sorry I ever-”

Ginny huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Dean. But Harry’s always been very appropriate.”

This is true, even if it’s bordering on a lie; _she’s_ always been the who takes things too far.

“I _just_ ,” Dean swallows, shoving his hands in his pockets. He sighs again. “I… I think Harry _looks_ at you. Sometimes.” He finishes with the same significant look he’d given her on the pitch; Ginny has no patience for it now, either.

“ _He looks at me,_ ” she deadpans. “Well, Dean, I reckon he’d have to, being quidditch captain—”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to snort in derision. “That’s not what I meant.” His voice is small.

Ginny’s patience evaporates more and more with every passing second. Dean is sixteen _bloody_ years old; she’s not going to say it for him.

“Then what _do_ you mean?”

Dean heaves a lumbering groan. “I… I just think…” He trails off, refusing to meet her eyes. “I know I’m not the only one. Who’s _noticed_ you.” His gaze hesitantly flickers to hers. “And if _Harry_ has, then—”

“—Harry isn’t dating me,” she says firmly. Dean opens his mouth to object, but Ginny raises a finger, cutting him off. _“No._ Harry isn’t dating me,” she repeats, taking a step forward. Dean gives her a hopeful look; for some reason, she finds his jealousy… almost _endearing?_ Perhaps because of how ridiculous it is.

“ _Dean_ is dating me,” she corrects, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Dean cracks with a sheepish grin and Ginny stands on her toes to brush her lips against his. “And you’d do well to remember _that_ , Mr. Thomas.”

He laughs against her mouth, but it’s clear he wants more. Ginny doesn’t deliver on that front, either; after another chaste kiss, she pulls away. She really _is_ tired. Dean lets her go with a muttered apology, but Ginny waves that off, too. There’s no need to rehash the whole thing, not when it’s more or less settled.

So Ginny bids him goodnight and heads to her room. That loose, dreamy feeling has returned; she changes into her pajamas and briefly wonders why she doesn’t just _take care of this_ more often. Relieving stress with quidditch alone isn’t enough. Not anymore.

It’s not until the first spindles of sleep whisk her away that Ginny admits she hasn’t confessed to the whole truth.

Because Harry _does_ look at her… and just like when she was eleven, even Dean can tell how Harry makes her feel.

* * *

On Valentine’s Day, Dean greets her with pink roses and a toothy grin. She laughs and leans in for a kiss. Ginny’s expecting a peck, but Dean pulls her hips to his, his mouth crawling down her jaw. She pulls back with a reluctant glance; it’s the beginning of the day, there’s people all around, and now she’s holding a bouquet of roses. How is one meant to snog while holding a bouquet of thorny flowers?

Dean looks put out, but he insists on holding her other hand as they walk to the Great Hall. The roses are a lovely gesture, _really_ they are… but even before she’s eaten breakfast, Ginny has no idea what she’s meant to do with them the rest of the day. This is a theme that continues as she leaves the Great Hall, roses in tow — and as she heads to her classes, Ginny catches a few sneers from passersby.

It’s clear other girls are jealous. But for the life of her, Ginny doesn’t understand _why_. She’s never cared for overt displays of affection or grand gestures or proving oneself in front of other people. She’s really never cared for Valentine’s Day, in general; it represents a lot of things she hates, like gifts for the sake of gifts. Also, there’s loads of pink involved. And she has red hair.

Nonetheless, the roses follow her to class. The _Ooos_ and comments don’t bother her… but the fact that Dean had genuinely thought she’d like them _does_ wear away at her. Just a bit.

And perhaps because of the way she’d begged off snogging this morning, Ginny also notices that Dean is being overly accommodating. He offers to ensure she gets to every class. He helps her through the portrait hole. _Twice._  He even starts to carry her bloody _broom_ once they get to the quidditch pitch, and that’s when she finally puts her damn foot down.

They snog after practice and it’s fairly enjoyable, as far as snogs go. Dean doesn’t complain when she pulls away, doesn’t allow his hands to wander, does nothing that might remind her of unpleasantries in the winter months.

Ginny still feels warm as his lips brush against hers. She still feels safe and protected and content as his arms sit on her waist, cradling her close. She’s sure Dean gets erections, but he doesn’t _announce_ them with his hips. Not like he used to.

  
But most importantly, while Dean’s kissing her, _so_ softly,  _so_ gently, Ginny can almost pretend she doesn’t miss the fire that follows Harry wherever he goes.

* * *

Hermione’s not the same as most girls. Ginny knows this better than anyone.

However, the difference between Hermione and most girls is rather hard to explain; the dichotomy isn’t the result of trivialities like makeup or fashion, although Hermione doesn’t care for these things, either.

Instead, Hermione is dissimilar from most females because she has a tendency to be oblivious in a way Ginny rarely sees. Or rarely sees on anyone aside from her closest brother.

Simply put, Ginny knows  _no one else_ who is so legitimately unaware of her own... socially off-putting tendencies.

And  _so_ legitimately unaware of the mixed signals she’d sent to Ron from the get-go.

Naturally, Ginny’d known about the tension between Ron and Hermione for almost as long as she’d known Hermione; you’d have to be a total fool to miss that, even if neither of them had seen it themselves. However, it had taken until the Quidditch World Cup for Ginny to get conclusive proof. She and Hermione had been friendly before, but sharing a tent and dealing with the Dark Mark and trying to hide their feelings for the boys had forged a deeper bond.

One evening after the match, when they’d been tucked safely away in the same room at the Burrow, Hermione had confessed to it all. She’d admitted to having feelings for Ron for _ages_. Before the time-turner. Before the slugs. Before she’d really been able to describe these feelings in words. Ginny had almost immediately understood, because she’d been facing a similar dilemma with Harry. That night, she’d also learned that her own behavior towards Harry was much less subtle than she’d thought… because even Hermione had picked up on it.

Ginny loves Hermione, she truly does — but Hermione’s also the sort of person who finds it appropriate to correct professors during lectures and attempt to “free” a species that doesn’t desire freedom. No… at core, Ginny and Hermione are very different, and to be honest, Hermione is grating in large doses. Unlike Ron, Ginny hasn’t the tenacity to banter with her or debate the merits of one thing over another; when Hermione switches into study mode or research mode or competition mode, Ginny’s learned to back away slowly.

Hermione’s still a good friend, of course; she’s objective, she’s analytical, and while she has a particular blind spot for anything involving Ron, she’s observant (in the strictly clinical sense) of other people.

Like Harry.

Thus, when Hermione had proposed an idea that evening, Ginny had trusted her expertize… right before she’d flipped the tables and gotten Hermione to accept the terms of her own proposition. And that’s how the agreement had been born: Ginny and Hermione would each move on from the boys who’d (thus far) failed to notice them… all the while hoping things might change. Eventually. _One day_.

Nevertheless, even back then, Ginny had known that Hermione would never be the type of girlfriend (or _sister-in-law_ , although the thought of that still sends a shiver up her spine) who enjoys unpacking deep conversations or drawing emotional inferences. Hermione is more socially aware than when she’d started at Hogwarts, but Ginny reckons that someone satisfied by the companionship of two (fairly oblivious) teenage boys will never reliably share sex tips or snogging tactics.  

Also, in this completely hypothetical fantasy scenario, Hermione would be sharing said information about Ginny’s own brother. This possibility is horrifying, but perhaps it’s for the best; Ginny doesn’t think she’d ever be able to look Ron in the face again if she knew even a fraction of the information she knows about Demelza’s various boyfriends.

So, all-in-all, if Ginny had to pick someone to be her sister-in-law, she reckons she would pick Hermione — and not just because she and Ron are perfect for each other. She’s better than Phlegm, she’s smart, and while she’s occasionally annoying and competitive, she’s a genuinely good person. What more could you ask for, really?

Over the years, she and Hermione both experienced _success_ in their agreement, although Hermione had always kept score. This had annoyed Ginny too — mostly because Hermione had been _really_ fucking obvious about it. She’d insisted on details of exactly what Ginny was doing with Michael, perhaps to use as a meter-mark comparison to what she’d done with Viktor ( _note: not much, but Ginny and Michael hadn’t done much, either_ ).

Of course, Hermione had taken things a step further by ignoring Ginny’s advice and deliberately parading her semi-relationship with Viktor in Ron’s face. As Ginny had predicted, this had only made Ron more insecure, thus propelling Hermione even further from her goal.

Hermione (in her obliviousness) hadn’t understood that, and Ginny doubts she ever will. Hermione’s social framework is focused on competition and proving her own value. Attempting to make Ron jealous through mentioning other romantic partners had seemed almost _logical_ … but (as Hermione also doesn’t understand) one cannot predict human behavior with logic alone.

So, in part, all of this is why Ginny had felt so terrible about blurting the details of the Krum situation. Hermione had been excited about taking Ron to Slughorn’s Party — _so_ excited she’d cornered Ginny in the loo one afternoon. Ginny’s choice to divulge private information had been rubbing salt into a wound; she’d somehow simultaneously shared the details of Hermione’s personal life while placing her even further from Ron, just when the tide had turned in their favor.

Oh, and Ginny had done all of that while she’d been snogging someone else, thus making her decidedly more successful in their pact.

_Great._

Ginny’s over the guilt aspect of what happened, but she still knows she needs to come clean. Hermione deserves answers — even if she (and Ron) had truly been the ones to get themselves into this situation. Still, when a pale-faced McGonagall snags Ginny from the Great Hall the morning of Ron’s birthday and mutters something about “ _meeting Miss Granger and Mr. Potter in the hospital wing_ ,” Ginny knows the time has come.

News of Ron’s poisoning leaves Ginny so disturbed and alarmed that she doesn’t even realize what she and Harry are doing for the first hour she’s there. It’s not until Hermione releases a particularly violent sob (and Harry gives an uncomfortable grimace) that Ginny even figures out: _It's like the two of them have been sharing a brain._

Ginny rushes to comfort her friend and tries her hardest to suppress an inappropriate grin. If the circumstances hadn’t involved her brother’s near-death, Ginny’s younger self would have thrilled at the way Harry’d finally, _finally_ involved her. At the way he’d finally let her in.

But seeing as how Ron very nearly _was_ killed, Ginny has much more important things to focus on. She brushes hair away from Hermione’s face and sends Harry on an errand to get a handkerchief and some water. Her eyes contain a lingering look, but she’s spent so much time around oblivious people that she doesn’t really expect him to understand; she can only hope he’ll choose this moment to be less thick than he’d been just seconds ago. When Harry rounds the corner, Ginny leans in to Hermione.

It’s now or never.

“Hey,” she murmurs, rubbing her hands up and down Hermione’s back. Hermione’s body is still wracked with sobs, but she isn’t flinching away from her touch. Ginny takes this as a good sign.

“He’s _fine_ , Hermione,” she soothes. “Honestly, he’s fine. Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t sugarcoat it, yeah? _And_ ,” Ginny adds, drawing a deep breath. She’s not sure how one should deliver this information… but she’ll try.

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Hermione pauses mid-hiccough and peers at her through tear-matted lashes. “ _What_?”

Ginny sighs. “All right, so the _good news_ is that Ron definitely has feelings for you.”

Unfortunately, this attempt at a revelation backfires rather spectacularly. Hermione sends her a scathing look and wipes her eyes on the back of her hand.

“I know you’re trying to make me feel better, Ginny,” she snaps, “but outright lying doesn’t help.”

_Oh._

Ginny blinks; she needs to choose her words carefully.

“I’m not lying,” she says flatly. “He definitely has feelings for you. Because if he didn’t?” She winces. “If he _didn’t_ , he wouldn’t have lost his bloody mind when I told him you’d snogged Krum.”

Hermione goes rigid beside her. _“What?”_

Ginny sighs again and scoots away; Hermione needs space. “I ruined everything and blurted all that out. In October,” she elaborates, staring at her cuticles. “I...” Ginny trails off with a sigh. “Harry and Ron walked in on me and Dean, and—”

“—I don’t care.” Hermione stares at her lap, her voice a strangled whisper.

Ginny cocks her head; she must have misunderstood. “But I _told_ Ron, and then he went to Lav—”

Hermione gives a violent shudder and Ginny’s mouth snaps closed.

“I don’t care,” Hermione repeats firmly. “Whatever you’ve told Ron is... it’s fine.” With that, she relaxes against the wall, still avoiding Ginny’s eyes. “I wasn’t exactly discreet with writing letters to Viktor in the first place,” she admits, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I honestly assumed he’d known about it, but seeing as how your brother is _as thick as a whale omelet_ , I’m not sure why I ever assumed anything at all.”

A soft smile tugs at the corners of Ginny’s lips, although she knows her friend’s not done.

“But _Merlin_ ,” Hermione adds, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This explains so much!”

“I know,” Ginny murmurs, deeming it safe to edge closer. “And I’m sorry. _Really_ , I’m sorry. If I hadn’t—”

Hermione cuts her off with a snort. “ _No._  Let’s move past the point of blaming anyone but Ron for...” She bites her lip, holding back tears. There’s a moment of strained silence before Hermione clears her throat. “ _Let’s move on_.”

Harry chooses that moment to return from around the corner, handkerchief clenched in his fist. He’s forgotten about the water, but that hardly matters. Ginny gives him a grateful smile and hands the handkerchief to Hermione. Lingering unease still flickers in Harry’s eyes as he takes in the two of them, so Ginny returns to the conversation they’d had just moments ago.

And with that, he’s _off_ — engaging in a much more comfortable topic.

Ginny finally allows herself to relax, content that both Harry and Hermione are at ease. She knows it won’t last. She knows they’re too emotional and unstable and that everything is too bloody close to the surface. For now, though, they’re sated. Which is the most Ginny could really ask for, given the circumstances.

A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey opens the doors to let them in. Ginny’s eyes immediately flit to Harry’s rigid form, to his clenched fist, to his set jaw; she knows that he’s about to charge in, to verify that Ron’s ok.

But this time, she won’t let him.

In a flash, Ginny’s at Harry’s side. She brushes her fingertips across his wrist, across the throbbing tendon in his hand. His eyes meet hers, and she knows he understands… because it’s one of  _those moments_ again, where everything else becomes background noise. She knows Harry gets it ( _Let Hermione go first_ ); this reckoning is dizzying. Breathtaking. _Hot._

Ginny feels a headrush as everything else falls into place. Harry turns his head away from her, but she’s nonetheless gotten through. She nonetheless understands. He’s not nearly as thick as he looks… at least not when it comes to _her._

* * *

In outwitting Voldemort, Harry’s rather skilled.

But for some reason, he’s picked today to come up with — Merlin help him — the most _shit_ theories he’s ever had.

Ginny’s oddly comforted that Harry’s attachment to Ron makes him particularly irrational, though, so she’s not a cow about it. Besides, Fred and George have _equally_ shit theories. Maybe it’s just her.

Still, Ginny can’t help the deflections from slipping past her lips ( _“Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?” “Or he could be innocent.” “The poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore.”_ ). She hopes her reasoning is less obvious than it seems; she doesn’t think she has time to process that right now — the possibility (however remote) that Harry might face a legitimate threat. That _Harry_ could have been the one who’d collapsed, choking and gagging, without a bezoar in sight.

Thankfully, Ron croaks out Hermione’s name, which rips her from that particularly dark line of thinking. Hermione barely has time to blush into her lap before Ginny’s parents bustle in for hugs and murmured words of thanks. Ginny makes a mental note to bring this up later; she doesn’t think Ron could have juxtaposed that any better against her earlier conversation with Hermione.

Then her father gushes over Harry’s heroism — and Ginny doesn’t need to see his pained expression to know he’s uncomfortable with every single second of it. Harry’s never wanted praise, never been willing to negotiate the merits of his own selflessness. It’s no shock when Harry leaps at the chance to leave as soon as Madam Pomfrey re-emerges.

Soon, just the Weasleys remain. Silent tears fall from Ginny’s mother’s eyes as she traces a finger up the side of Ron’s face. Her father can scarcely wrap an arm around his wife, his face nearly as pallid and lifeless as Ron’s. Even the twins are uncharacteristically silent as they stand vigil, their arms crossed over their chests.

Ginny bites the inside of her cheek; she’s sure she’s not the only one who feels their family is less complete since Harry and Hermione have left.

Fred’s the first to break the silence. “Ginny should probably be off to bed, yeah?” he ventures. “I’m sure they’ve been up a long time, and —”

“Of course,” Molly whispers, clearing her throat. Then she shakes her head, swiftly regaining some of her composure. Ginny’s heart breaks in the process — because, for the first time, she understands what her mother is doing: She’s putting aside her own fears and horrors to better care for her children… even while one of her children is unconscious.

“We’ll take her to Gryffindor tower,” George offers. “Not like it’s unfamiliar territory. And who knows… after this morning, an escort might not be a bad idea.”

With that, five Weasleys clear their throats as the implications of those words wash over them. They shuffle in place. They avoid eye contact. They pretend nothing is amiss, apart from Ron being tucked in a hospital bed. But George has finally addressed the hippogriff in the room — the one that’s been obvious since Ginny’s family stepped foot at Hogwarts today: This is becoming far too similar to _that year._  Students are being attacked. Weasleys are involved. Dark magic is growing.

Try as she might, Ginny can’t summon the strength to disagree with the engulfing display of overprotectiveness. She hugs her parents tightly and promises to keep writing to them, to tell them about anything and everything. Her mother tells her she loves her, her father tells her to stay safe, and with a final wave, she’s on her way.  

It’s not until they’re on their way to Gryffindor tower that Fred and George finally break the tension.

“So Ron and Hermione!” George booms triumphantly. He walks backward, circling around Ginny and Fred. She rolls her eyes; somehow she’d forgotten that they’re the sort to place bets on relationships.

“You really _do_ need to pay up, brother,” George adds, wincing in false apology as he settles on Ginny’s other side. “No need to be a sore loser, now. We have our answer!”

“Not so hasty, George, not so hasty,” Fred says from Ginny’s left. She’s fully aware of what they’re doing — they’re flanking her, making sure she’s protected on all sides. They haven’t spoken a word, but it seems they’ve coordinated this, too; Ginny can’t decide if she feels more cherished or infantilized, but she supposes that’s neither here nor there.

“They’re not together,” Ginny affirms as they turn the corner. Fred crows at this; George groans. _“But_ you heard him!” she adds, glancing in George’s direction. “I reckon Bill and Fleur will have to make room for a double wedding. That’ll make _her_ bloody day…”

“Oh, our little Ronniekins,” George says. His voice takes on a far-off, wistful quality; he pretends to get teary-eyed and begins fanning his face. “All grown up and ready to f—”

“— _Please_ don’t finish that,” Ginny pleads, raising a hand in his direction. She’d long ago accepted that Ron and Hermione will… do that. In theory. _Abstractly_. But after the day she’s had, it’s a bit much to be presented with the mental image of Ron’s pasty, freckled arse jack-hammering into—

“Oh, and speaking of shagging,” Fred starts again. A passing beam of moonlight illuminates the dark expression traveling across his face. Ginny feels George’s body stiffen on her other side; she doesn’t know what _he_ knows, but she fucking hates these obnoxious twin things. It’s like being excluded from a perpetual joke.

Predictably, George continues where Fred’s left off. “You and that _Thomas_ tosser,” he starts, his voice low and even. “Nothing we need to worry about… right?”

Ginny’s fist curls into a ball, her nostrils flaring. With every fiber of her being, she wants to recoil in disgust from the accusation. She wants to demand who the hell her brothers think they are. She wants to slap both of them for attempting any degree of ownership over her body.

But she also knows that this reaction is exactly what they want. So instead, she clears her throat and arches an eyebrow as she continues her measured, even steps; two ( _technically three_ ) can play at this game.

“I wasn’t aware you lot were so concerned with the goings on in my trousers,” Ginny replies airily. She refuses to give the twins the satisfaction on commenting upon the status of her virginity whatsoever. From their silence, she can tell her strategy is working. _Good_.

“But if you’d like,” she permits, an affable note in her voice. “I’m _happy_ to owl you with the details of my cycle! It’s no trouble, really. I can provide any detail you’d like — and Merlin knows how _good_ witches are at coming up with details!”

The twins roll their eyes and shift uncomfortably on either side of her, but Ginny clasps her hands with a devious giggle; she’s forgotten how much she loves torturing _them_ — and not the other way 'round. Fred and George have always maintained that they’re beyond the limitations of disgust for bodily functions… but Ginny _also_ knows everyone has a breaking point.

And right here — right now — she intends to find it.

“So what’ll it be?” Ginny croons excitedly. “Colors? _Textures?_ Last month was really exciting, you should’ve been there —”

With that, Ginny’s finally rewarded with repulsed groans. In unison, the twins jerk their heads in opposite directions, their faces as white as if they’d witnessed a Cruciatus demonstration.  

“Fuck, Ginny,” Fred mutters from her left. “Point _bloody_ taken.”

“Pun intended,” George adds weakly. Then he turns towards her, suddenly serious. “But really. You’re being… careful, at least?”

The question hangs heavy in the air. She hasn’t heard George this serious since… well, since this _morning_ , when he’d looked down at Ron’s prone, unconscious form. The memory slashes through her stomach with a wave of nausea and fear; even this brief respite with the twins has distracted her from the reason they’re here in the first place. On any other day, Ginny might have revealed nothing at all. She might’ve told her brothers where to stuff it. She might’ve pretended they hadn’t spoken. But, _yes_ , she concedes as they reach the Fat Lady… _this business with Ron has left her a little worried._

Fred and George are worried too, but not for the same reasons; Ginny takes one glimpse at their aghast, guarded expressions… and realizes she hasn’t answered their question.

_Shittt._

“Oh! We _haven’t_ … there’s nothing to be careful with!” she says hastily, shaking her head. She must look convincing enough, because the twins groan in relief as identical freckled hands slide down their faces. They take a second to collect themselves amidst mutters of, “Younger siblings fucking _murdering_ us today” and, “Can you imagine _that_ conversation with Mum?”

Ginny ignores this; she still has a point to make. “But,” she adds with a sniff, strength returning to her voice. “It wouldn’t be _your_ business if anything _had_ happened. With _anyone_.”

Fred shrugs, but George addresses the point. “We know, but we still have to pretend. You understand.” He puffs out his chest.

“Six brothers,” Fred agrees. “One sister. _All that_.”

Ginny shakes her head. She absolutely _does_ not understand... but she never will, she supposes. Fred and George lean in to hug her goodbye, taking special efforts to feign tears and go over the top. This time, though, there’s somber undercurrent beneath their overtures. They pull away after mussing her hair one final time, and Ginny gives a parting wave as she crawls into the portrait hole.

She’s not expecting the words that follow her.

“Would we be having his conversation if you were dating Harry instead?”  

Ginny freezes on the precipice, one foot in, one foot out. She’s not sure which of the twins has said it, but she’s not sure that matters. Her heart thunders in her chest, her skin pales, and she curses that she’s the younger sister of two of the most _observant_ wankers the world has ever seen.

“Harry,” she says stiffly, facing the common room, “has _nothing_ to do with this.”

Said wankers chuckle darkly from behind her, but she won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing how badly she’s rattled.

“ _Right_ - _o_ ,” Fred drawls; Ginny can nearly see his posture from the cockiness in his tone. “Do you reckon it’s normal, George, to get so defensive over someone you’ve never thought to shag?”

Oh, for _Merlin’s_ sake! Ginny snorts, shaking her head. If _that’s_ all they’ve got, then —

“Can’t say I have," George contends. Ginny continues through the portrait hole, utterly unbothered by their antics, but then Fred speaks again… and his words are like acid bubbling down her throat.

“Do you ever notice, George,” Fred calls decisively, just as Ginny slips out of sight. “That Ginny hasn‘t denied that, even once?”

* * *

Ginny descends the stairs particularly early on the morning of the Hufflepuff match. The leather fastenings of her quidditch kit rub together as she blinks away the final vestiges of sleep, and Ginny accepts (for the thousandth time) that quidditch is the only thing that could make her willingly rise before 7 AM. In fact, she enjoys doing this, arriving early at the pitch; she likes taking stock of the field and weather to focus herself before charging out.

This ritual is sharply interrupted, however, by the presence of Hermione at the foot of the stairs. Ginny takes her in with bleary eyes. Hermione’s face is split into a grin… one that looks almost devious.

“Good morn—?”

“Harry fancies you,” Hermione blurts, her grin widening. She claps her hands, looking happier (and more maniacal) than Ginny thinks she’s ever seen her.

But she’s also full of shit, regardless of how she looks.

“Good morning,” Ginny says pointedly, arching an eyebrow. “Are you going to the ma—?”

Hermione waves her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, let’s go down to the match together. That bit’s not important.” She turns back to Ginny, eyes gleaming. “ _Did you hear what I said_?”

“Well, you all but shouted it,” Ginny says cooly, “I reckon I’d have to—”

With that, Hermione releases a most uncharacteristic giggle — and inexplicably marches across the common room and out the portrait hole. Ginny blinks at her for two seconds before she realizes she’s meant to follow. By the time she scrambles through, Hermione’s already waiting, her face still filled with smugness.

“Figured you’d want to continue this outside,” Hermione allows. Ginny rolls her eyes and walks forward, Hermione scurrying along at her side; she’s picked a hell of a time to feign sensitivity.

“Anyway,” Hermione continues, chancing a sidelong glance at Ginny’s face. “ _Harry fancies you_.”

“Well… he’s  _attracted_ to me,” Ginny allows as they turn a corner. A quick glimpse over her shoulder confirms there’s no one around to overhear. “And I’ve known since hols,” she adds, swallowing. “That Harry’s, you know. Interested. _Like that_.”

It feels like the dirtiest secret she’s ever told, like she’s confessing to murder. Ginny’s face burns with the force of the admission, but Hermione’s too busy making a grimace of disgust to notice; Ginny promptly remembers with whom she’s speaking.

“ _Anyway,”_ she says, clearing her throat. “I’ve got a boyfriend, and Harry doesn’t _actually_ fancy me. The end.”

Hermione’s grin shifts from devious to smug. “Well, I wouldn’t be so sure,” says, in her best attempt at being coy…. but Hermione is _really_ fucking terrible at being coy. “The last time I saw him stare at a girl like that—”

Ginny laughs as they walk down the marble steps. “Yeah, and that turned out spectacularly! I hear snogging and sobbing are the foundations of many solid relationships.”

Hermione mulls this over as they continue their trek. Several minutes pass and Ginny’s thinks she’s finally dropped it, when—

“What makes you so sure?”

There’s a serenity in Hermione’s voice that Ginny’s certain she’s never heard, and that’s when it finally clicks: _She’s feeling guilty._ Ron hasn’t quite chucked Lavender, but Ginny knows he’s close; they _both_ know he’s close. For all Hermione’s bravado of competition and fierceness, deep down, she wants Harry and Ginny to work out, too. It’s sweet, really — in the most _Hermione_ way possible.

Ginny pauses outside the locker room, facing her friend. “Hermione,” she starts. “I appreciate you… noticing this. And telling me.” Ginny runs her tongue over her teeth, collecting her thoughts. “But Harry’s a schoolyard crush. He’s not awkward around me or snogging someone to get revenge and —”

Hermione flushes, and Ginny arches an eyebrow. She’s  _done_ with this useless theory, really; it’s time to give Hermione a taste of her own medicine.

“Harry," Ginny finishes, “isn’t calling _my name_ when he’s asleep.”

But instead of reacting with a blush or a giggle, Hermione just pauses, furrowing her brow… and something in Ginny’s stomach sinks. Because she _knows_ that expression: It’s Hermione’s _oh-fuck-I-hadn’t-even-considered-that_ face. It means that Hermione hadn’t followed Ginny’s line of logic. It means she’d never once put two and two together. It means (first and foremost) that she truly hadn’t been swayed by feelings of guilt… and that she’d likewise made a legitimate, _clinical_ observation, based solely on Harry’s behavior.

They part ways and bid their goodbyes, but Ginny can’t shake the quiver that fills her stomach. She doesn’t bother trying to deny that Harry might be the only person alive that Hermione both objectively studies… and objectively understands.

Which means somehow — _someway_ — that Hermione might have a point.

_Bugger._

* * *

The quidditch game goes amazingly. Until it doesn’t.

Ginny blames herself; she should’ve been able to concentrate worth a damn after she’d watched Harry plummet from his broom as quickly as her heart had plummeted to her stomach.

But she hadn’t been able to do anything, had she?

The whole thing had gone to shit very, very fast. She’d filled in as seeker, but it’d hardly mattered. She’d already seen them clearing Harry’s body off the field, and that had been fucking awful. Ginny doesn’t think she’ll ever get over seeing that, regardless of how many times she’s been forced to witness as much.

It’s a mercy killing when Hufflepuff finally catches the snitch, and it’s all Ginny can do to give apologetic hugs to the rest of the team before she scurries to the hospital wing. She ignores Demelza’s arched eyebrow and Dean’s forlorn stare, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other and pumping her legs as fast as she can.

It’s rather anticlimactic when she gets there.

Ron’s sitting up in bed, a pleasant expression on his face. “Look what the kneazle dragged in!” he says, his voice oddly cheerful. Ginny rolls her eyes and continues her determined steps forward.

She doesn’t know why, but she _needs_ to see him… she _needs_ to prove Harry’s just asleep. Ginny sinks to the chair beside his bed, her eyes falling to his face. If Ron acts surprised, he doesn’t look it — but she also gathers he doesn’t quite understand the depth of what she’s experiencing; she doesn’t fully understand it herself.

Ginny breathes a sigh of relief as Harry’s chest rises and falls. He’s pale, he’s got a bruise on his forehead, but he’s sleeping. _Just sleeping_. Ginny swallows. _Merlin_ , he looks so different without his glasses. She’s seized with an odd compulsion to touch his face; her finger twitches with restraint, but her eyes lack a similar degree of caution. They rake across her features unabashedly, taking every inch of him in. Without his glasses, Harry’s features are softer, less filled with worry. When he’s not wearing his glasses, he actually _looks_ sixteen…  

But Tom was sixteen, too.

 _Fuck_.

Ginny shudders and looks away. She blinks the fog from the corners of her eyes and curses why it’s followed her _here_ , of all places. This isn’t the time for that, although she supposes she understands; Harry and Ron are both ill, both of stuck in the hospital wing. _The boys_ , she thinks, wrinkling her nose. Isn’t that what she and Hermione always called them?

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ron says, through a yawn. “It’s probably best you aren’t here when he wakes up. Better to hear about it from me, you know?”

Ginny narrows her eyes. “It wasn’t _my_ fault. The game was just—”

“—I know, _I know!_ ” Ron says, spreading his palms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He sighs and picks at a piece of lint on his sheet. “I just _meant_ that it’s better that he wakes up and isn’t worried about disappointing someone.”

_Oh._

She hadn’t thought about it like that… but _of course_ it makes sense. Ginny sighs as her eyes return to Harry’s face. Will he ever get over that, she wonders? Thinking he’s disappointed someone?

“So uh,” Ron begins, and from the forced casualness of his tone, Ginny knows who he’s asking about. “Do you know if Hermione was planning to stop by, or…?”

Ginny gives him a plain stare; she’s never had much patience for this. “I’ve no idea where Hermione _is_ , seeing as how we’re separate people. Which,” she adds thoughtfully, “should make you happy, unless you’d like to snog your sister.”

There’s an awkward pause.

And in that pause, Ginny realizes just how much her brother has changed over the course of a few months. In September, Ron would have reacted to that pseudo-accusation by making a harsh denial, clearing his throat, and shifting the blame.

Now, though? She cocks her head, taking him in. Ron’s flushed bright red, but that’s the only clear resemblance between the boy she once knew and the man in front of her. He’s staring at his bedsheet, steadily turning darker and darker… and although Ginny knows he’s been a total wanker, she’ll be damned if she doesn’t take pity on him.

“Hey,” she says softly; Ron tries to hide how eagerly he hangs on her every word. “I reckon,” Ginny continues, her eyes never leaving Harry’s face, “that if you just _chucked_ Lav-Lav and apologized, Hermione would—“

Ron cuts her off with an indignant snort. “Easy for you to say! You’ve _always_ got someone interested—”

And maybe it’s because Ginny’s exhausted. Maybe it’s because she’s overwhelmed. Maybe it’s because she has got someone interested (and yet not _someone_ someone)… but she suddenly finds she hasn’t the patience to deal with a bloke who’s standing millimeters away from everything he’s ever wanted.

“—I have not!” she seethes, eyes flaring. “I haven’t _always_ got someone interested, Ron. And even if I had, it’s not—”

But Ron doesn’t really want to have this conversation, either.

He groans, running a hand down his freckled face. “ _Whatever_. Ok, Ginny? What the _fuck_ ever. I’m… I’m _sorry_ I—” He waves his hand in her general direction. “Made assumptions. However you call them. _About you._ ”

Ron crosses his arms over his chest and huffs at the far wall. Ginny’s face softens; her brother might be more mature than he’d been before, but she knows that’s as close as she’s getting to an apology. She changes the subject.

“Harry barely made it to the match,” she offers, glancing down at him again. “He… he said something about _Malfoy_. Of all people.”

Ron whips his head back to hers; he looks as confused as she feels. “Yeah?”

Ginny nods, shrugging. “I know he’s, you know. _Complicated_. But maybe if you talked to him a bit more, he wouldn’t go and—”

Ron snorts again. “Ginny,” he says plainly. “We both know what Harry’s like when he gets an idea in his head. Do you honestly expect me to have _any_ bloody control over that?”

Ginny laughs despite herself; her brother has a point.

“Anyway,” Ron says, stretching. “Good thing you‘re here, because I need the loo. Keep him company, all right?” He finishes with a grin, but Ginny feels the ripple of seriousness lurking beneath his tone; he’d _kill_ anyone who'd hurt his best mate.

Ginny nods, her eyes flitting back to Harry, as Ron shakily sinks into the wheelchair beside his bed; she‘s thankful that he won’t need any help in the loo, at least. She listens for Ron to wheel out of sight before she does what she needs to do.

For the life of her, though, she can’t articulate _why_ she needs to do it.

Ginny _knows_ it’s wrong. She _knows_ it’s weird. She _knows_ it’s uncomfortable… but she draws a breath, reaches out a shaking hand, and brushes her finger against his left fist. An electric current jolts through her as their skin touches. Ginny jerks her arm away, filled with a mixture of horror and awe.

_Fuck._

Ginny rips her head away with a grimace. She knows _who_ usually accompanies a visceral reaction like this. Her eyes slam shut, her chest heaves in the cumbersome silence… and she waits.

But the seconds tick by, and the fog doesn’t come. There are no loathsome remarks or stilted insults or claims of failure. There’s no charming black-haired man who feeds from her secrets and leaves her limp and emaciated.

Ginny opens her eyes and stares at Harry again.

He’s just as she left him — pale and unconscious. But more than that, he’s  _Harry_ : He’s a fucking bastion of morality. He’s noble and pure-hearted and utterly incapable of anything resembling the evil that periodically creeps past her barriers of strength and pride.  

Ginny rises from the chair on unstable legs, turning away as fast as she can. It’s not until she’s past the door of the hospital wing that the real question finally occurs to her — the one she’d never allowed herself to ask before:

_Is it possible she’s allowed Harry and Tom (respectively, and in equal parts) to control her body… and her mind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next chapter. Working title: thank u, next.


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